


Don't Panic

by panicandprocrastinate



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: Agoraphobia, Angst, Blood and Gore, Dark, Eating Disorders, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Injury, Mental Health Issues, Mystery, Panic Attacks, Psychic!Reader - Freeform, Romance, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Swearing, more angst than fluff, will add tags as I go along
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2020-06-25 20:23:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 41,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19753168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panicandprocrastinate/pseuds/panicandprocrastinate
Summary: Nightmares.Reminders of the things you want to forget but can't.Nightmares.Predictions of what's to come.Predictions of a new psycho running around Gotham massacring people.But despite all your power, you couldn't predict getting involved in the case to stop him.You couldn't predict anything.





	1. The Painting

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: major panic attacks in this first chapter and mention of gory details and dead bodies  
> This entire story is dark and gruesome, with lots of triggers, so please don't read if you can't handle it, other than that, please enjoy x  
> Also, Nevaeh's name is pronounced NevAY :p

Sometimes, you just can’t escape.

You can hide in your house, never come out, avoid all situations where that _thing_ could happen again.

You can scrub yourself red raw, until there’s no trace of what happened on your skin.

You can purge the house of everything that was your old life, scrubbing it till there’s only _you_ left.

You can never eat, the pit of guilt in your stomach and the lump in your throat never allowing anything other than liquids down it.

But sometimes, you just can’t escape.

And those reminders, are called nightmares.

And they’re not even your own.

Precognition. That’s what they call it.

You call it hell.

Grammy used to have it too. Papa used to talk about how she would go into trances and would never stop until the vision was on canvas. Until the vision was purged from her mind.

In the old days there wasn’t as many psychos, so Grammy didn’t get as many visions as you. But once in a blue moon, she would be able to save hundreds of people from a train derailing by calling in and reporting a fault on the tracks.

But you get visions every night.

The curse of living in Gotham.

Psychos around every corner, whether they were vigilantes or not didn’t matter. They were still crazy.

But then some people could say the same thing about you.

Too afraid to leave the house. Too guilty to eat anything. Too sad to ever let go. 

Hell was too nice a word.

But it was everything you were feeling right now.

Bile rising in the back of your throat, your head pounding and your eyes burning, _guilt, fear, depression. _

The canvas stared back at you, the pit in your stomach getting worse with every second you stared. But you couldn’t look away.

How could you? It was revolting. Traumatizing. Suffering. They were still _suffering._

You could feel it. Even if it was just a painting, you knew. You dreamt it. They were still _alive_.

It was too much. You ran to the toilet, fell on your knees, and emptied everything that was in your stomach.

Which was nothing but bile and coffee. Still, it burned your throat.

Tears were falling uncontrollably now, sobbing as you clutched the toilet seat and _still,_ threw up.

The image was there now, scarred in the back of your mind, just waiting to resurface in a few months to traumatise you all over again.

You couldn’t breathe. It was too hot, too hot, too _hot._

You knew what was happening. A panic attack. The burning in your throat, the burning in your face, you couldn’t breathe.

You were crying too hard; you couldn’t stop yourself.

Sobbing, clutching your chest, your heart _hurt._

 _‘If you think you’re going into a panic attack, you will. **Stop it**.’ _Her voice ringing in your head.

Gasping, still crying, it was too much. Everything was too much.

**_‘STOP IT.’_ **

Holding your breath. You stopped. Until the world felt dizzy, your head feeling light, you breathed in again.

 _‘Breathe.’_ She spoke again.

Breathe you did. Slowly though, so not to hyperventilate. Big breaths, in through your nose, out through your mouth.

You looked up, the painting still there, still creating that air of doom in the apartment.

This time, you curled up in a ball, and cried normally. This is why you never left the house.

*

It was around about 2:30 pm when Nevaeh came over. You had called her the moment you calmed down, _after_ you had done your morning routine.

Routine was key to keeping calm.

Sitting in the kitchen at your small round dining table, you slowly sipped your latte. It was less bitter, and helped forget the taste of bile. But fear was never easily forgotten.

You stared at the easel, the painting still sitting there, but covered in a white sheet, so that you would feel calmer.

It was weird, but it felt like if you couldn’t see it then it never really happened.

Or that it wasn’t going to happen.

Normally when having predictions like this you just stayed quiet. Bad things happened, and if you got involved there was more chance of bad things happening to you.

There was more chance of you _dying._

But this prediction was bad. Even thinking about what was under that sheet gave you goose bumps and a sense of dread that felt like it was tearing your spine from you.

And it wasn’t going to be the only one.

You could sense these things. You knew there was going to be more. More paintings like this one, getting worse each time.

It made you want to start crying again.

So, you called Nevaeh. She probably wouldn’t know what to do either, but as long as _someone_ else knew, then it would be okay. At least a little bit.

You wouldn’t have to sit in dread alone, waiting for the pin to drop, that there was another psycho in Gotham, and he wasn’t going to be stopped for a while.

That he was going to be as bad as the Joker. Maybe worse.

That was the paranoia talking. No one was worse than the Joker.

You jiggled your leg under the table, getting more and more paranoid, thinking and _thinking._

Finally, the sound of the lock on the door turning filled the restless silence. She was _here._

When she opened the door, and immediately turned to you, her face fell. She _knew_.

She always knew. Just from the look on your face, she could tell it was bad. Closing the door behind her and setting the groceries down on the table, she turned and hugged you immediately. Stroking your hair gently as you buried your face in her neck, you felt _peace._

The blessing of a best friend.

Letting go and sitting down she looked at you properly, analysing your face, making sure everything was okay. But she could see it. The way you held your tongue from throwing up, the way your eyes were still red from crying, the bags underneath from such little sleep and your nose all red and sore from rubbing it too much.

She held you again, shushing and rubbing your back, gently whispering it was going to be okay.

It was hard not to fall apart again.

Finally letting go and sitting up straight, she grabbed a box of strawberries out of the grocery bag and held it up. “You want some? Or do you still feel sick?” She asked in a gentle voice.

“I think at this point I feel sick _because_ of how empty my stomach is.”

She smiled and chuffed, then stood up to go get a cup of coffee, leaving the strawberries on the table for you to gnaw at.

After flicking on the kettle and preparing everything she needed, she turned to face you and leant against the counter.

“How bad is it gonna be?” she asked, her dark eyes never showing what she was feeling, but you could hear in her voice she was worried.

“It’s gonna be bad.” You said gravely, and she whispered a small damn under her breathe. Looking at the floor, you could hear her thinking. She was gonna start asking her routine questions. The important ones.

“How many people and who’s in it?”

“Where is it and What time does it happen?”

“Do you know how it happens? _Do you know who’s going to do it?”_

You can never answer the last question. You don’t know if it’s because it would be scarier to see a person become a _monster_ or if life is just that much of a bitch. Either way, the last question always hindered you.

“It’s just one person, I don’t know who she is, I think she’s just a civilian, but if he did to her face what he did with her body then…” you left the words hanging in the air, it was obvious what you meant. If he did to her face what he did to her body then you wouldn’t even be able to tell who she is.

You continued on.

“Its in the middle of the road Nevaeh. Like he just walked out into the street and started placing the body in position. In public! He didn’t care who saw him, all he cared about was getting it perfect. Like he was making an art piece… He started at around about three in the morning, and was done by 7 ish.”

Nevaeh swore under her breath, staring at the ground, her eyebrows furrowed and clearly angry. You knew why she did this. It was like she was preparing herself so that when she saw the art piece she wouldn’t be as startled.

The first time you showed her one of your pieces without questions, she threw up immediately too. Ever since then she’s being doing all she can to prepare herself for whatever you dreamt up next.

“I think he kidnapped her from her house. Like he walked straight in just took her.”

“He doesn’t care.” It wasn’t a question. Both of you knew it. And she was angry. Her voice was deep and she was starting to tense her jaw. You knew she was going to ask the last question again.

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know.”

She sighed, and shame was staring to burn your cheeks.

Looking up at you, she told you to eat something, and that she would look at the painting and decide if something needed to be done.

You peeled off the plastic covering the box of strawberries, and Nevaeh pulled off the white sheet. You heard her gasp behind you, but you couldn’t bare to look at the painting again, so you just bit into your strawberry and sunk further into your seat.

But then you heard her gag, and you knew you had to comfort her. She was turned away from it, her hand over her mouth and her eyes squeezed shut. Shooting out of your chair, you placed your hand on her back and gently rubbed up and down, soothing her.

You knew this was too much. You had painted worse things than this, but you never allowed her to see. This was the worse one she had ever laid her eyes on. You felt so _guilty_ for making her look at it.

“I’m okay, I’m okay.” She reassured you and stood straight, turning back around to look at it. Her face was curled into disgust and fear, but she didn’t look away.

Her reason was always different from yours.

You couldn’t look away because you were petrified to the spot.

She couldn’t look away because she was _deciding._ Deciding if she should _finally_ call someone and tell them about how you’re always right.

Deciding if she should save someone’s _life._

Finally, she looked away. She gulped, breathed in and out, and then walked over to the kitchen to flick the kettle back on.

You stood there, in the middle of the living room, staring at her. Wringing your hands, not knowing what to do with yourself.

She was just there, leaning against the counter, arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed. Angry, upset, _disgusted_. But most of all, she was torn. She _wanted_ to tell someone. But she also knew how wrecked with anxiety you would be if she did.

God, why did you have to be scared of _everything?_

*

Nevaeh left at about quarter to 8. She had covered the painting back up, made herself a coffee and then you both sat down and talked like nothing had happened.

That’s why she was your best friend. She was a perfect distraction.

But before she left, you asked her if she was going to do something.

“We’ll see.” Was all she said.

_“We’ll see.”_

It echoed in your head all night. That stupid paranoia, saying stupid things.

Stupid things, like if people knew, they would judge you. They would call you desperate for attention.

Stupid things, like if people knew, they would hate you, call you a freak, lock you up in Arkham.

Not so stupid things, like if people knew, they would arrest you. Why else would you know what was going to happen?

Not so stupid things, like if word got out that you know, _he_ would come for you. _He_ would make sure you would never predict another thing again.

_He would kill you._

_‘Don’t go into a panic attack.’_

Her voice was still sickeningly authoritative.

Sitting up in your bed, your door was wide open. You didn’t normally have it open, but tonight was too hot for it not to be.

Directly in front of the door, across the room, the easel stood.

It was still covered in the white sheet, but it somehow seemed scarier with it, now that it was dark and you were alone.

Your fingers itched to take it off, to look at it one more time, to torture yourself a little more.

Sighing, you stood up and went to the kitchen. The strawberries were calling your name.

But so was the easel.

 _‘self-control’_ she reminded you.

“Screw you.” You said aloud to the empty apartment. Even in death she still couldn’t help but try to berate you. Lecture you. _Control you._

“Suck my dick.” you snarled and stomped over to the easel, strawberry in mouth, and ripped the sheet off the easel.

A shiver went up your spine, but it wasn’t of regret.

Chewing your strawberry, you stared at the painting. Desperate to prove to a _ghost_ that you could handle it.

You analysed everything you could see, the golden and silver spears that held the victim to the ground, carved with intricate detail, spread throughout the body to hold the position he wanted. The exotic flowers and greenery, wrapping around the arms and legs, growing out of the wounds the spears left. The beautiful white cotton gown rapidly growing red. Red with blood.

 _Fresh_ bright red blood.

Right,

They were still _alive_.

A second shiver went up your spine. Definitely regret.

You swallowed your strawberry, put the sheet back over the easel, and went to bed.

Sleep did not come easy.


	2. The Body

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehehe the fun begins...  
> chapter two was sooo long, so I split it in two. So now im ahead of the game and im realllyy gonna try and do regular posting but like, I post when I post lol.  
> also, a lot happens in this chapter so like, please don't freak out.

Turns out, you didn’t sleep. The sun was shining through your window and onto the bed where you laid with blood shot eyes staring at the ceiling.

That stupid trance thing had happened.

Your small sketchpad had been completely filled in last night, every page with a new picture of a detailed mugging or B’n’E or drug deal. Some pictures even had Batman in them. You actually liked those ones.

But the trance had still happened. Pencils all over the floor, even some sheets of paper that had been torn out.

Everything was a mess.

And you were _exhausted._

The ringing of your phone cut through your train of thought.

Groaning, you grabbed you phone from your night stand and checked who it was.

Nevaeh. You sighed a happy sigh. Just seeing her name made a smile grace your lips.

But then your eyes flicked to the time, and just like a switch, the dread kicked in.

_7:16_

_‘He started at around about three in the morning, and was done by 7 ish.’_

You remembered those words you said yesterday, and suddenly, everything was too hot.

Sweat trickling down your face, you gulped what little air you could. You felt like you were suffocating.

Those words were all you could hear, besides the new ringing in your ears and the phone still ringing.

_The phone was still ringing._

Right, Nevaeh was still calling.

Hesitantly, you pressed the little green button, and croakily answered “Hello?”

_Since when had your throat gone dry?_

“(y/n)? Thank god. I- I-” Was she crying? You shot up, but instantly regretted it when the room started spinning.

“(y/n)” She was definitely crying. The room was definitely too hot.

“Nevaeh.” She stilled over the phone, waiting to hear what you’d say.

“It’s alright, I’m here.”

Then she broke. She _sobbed._ You could hear it; her heart was _hurting._ She was terrified. She felt like the world was going to kill her. You knew that kind of fear.

But she was also grieving. _No one_ should go through what that victim was going through. Except the person that did _that._

After a few minutes she calmed down. She didn’t need to tell you. You _knew_ why she called. But she did so anyway. She needed to tell _someone_. So that shouldn’t wouldn’t feel _alone._

“I found the body.”

_“It was on my way to work.”_

_“I didn’t know what it was until I got out of the car.”_

You were listening, but you weren’t. The room was spinning. It was too hot.

Were you even breathing?

_‘Breathe’_

Why did it have to be her voice? Why did she have to try and help you? She never helped you.

But you still breathed. In through your nose, out through your mouth.

You could hear Nevaeh on the other side of the phone, copying your actions.

Did she know that you weren’t actually helping her? That you were breathing for yourself? Apparently, it didn’t matter, because you both calmed down.

“I saw him.”

Your blood went _cold._ Ice was in your veins and goose bumps raced up your skin. Shivering, shaking, what was the difference? Either way she saw him.

_She’s a witness._

_He’s going to kill her._

“I caught a glimpse of him. His shadow mostly, but I gave the description to the police, even though it was barely anything.”

_Relief._

She barely saw anything.

She’s _safe._

“At least you’re okay. You are okay, right?” You asked, making sure.

“Yeah, I’m okay. Just shaken up.”

“Good.” You sighed, followed by silence.

“What are you going to do now?” It was a stupid question; you knew what she was going to do. She’s the person who told you routine was the key to keeping calm.

She was gonna go to work.

“I’m gonna go to work.” Right as always. “I can’t just bail without warning. They need me.”

You hummed in agreement, laying back down on your bed.

“You okay?” what a weird question to ask. You weren’t the one who found a dead body.

“I’m fine? Why wouldn’t I be? I’m just worried about you is all.”

“Hm, don’t be, I’m okay now.” She sighed, and you heard the phone shifting, probably from her shoulder to her hand. She sighed again before she spoke;

“I had better get going, but thanks. I really needed you.”

You smiled at the ceiling, “It’s no problem, I’m always here whenever you need me. I Love you.”

“I love you too.” And just like that, she was gone. All that was left was the ringing in your ears.

*

Morning routine.

Make bed, make coffee, get changed, make more coffee, tidy room from last night’s episode.

Pause tidying. Watch as a **vigilante** climbs through your window and **collapses** on your floor. Cry because that was not part of the morning routine and **oh god is he dead?**

You stood there, tears brimming in your eyes and fear paralysing you because, _What the fuck?!_

What did _normal_ people do in this situation?!

Normal people would help him.

But you weren’t normal and the room was getting too hot and your throat was getting tighter.

This is _exactly_ why you never left the house! So people could never see you have a panic attack but there was a guy in your house uninvited and _you were literally panicking_.

You cried harder, the room suffocating and your face and throat was _burning._

But then again, the guy on the floor was too dead to notice your break down even though that didn’t help the situation at all.

God you were so _tired_ of having people die on your floor.

**_‘Stop panicking’_ **

There she was again, helping when she’s supposed to be dead.

_‘Breathe’_

Deep breathes. In through your nose, out through your mouth.

_‘Slowly’_

God would she ever stop lecturing you?

But it worked. You hated to say it, but it worked. Your breathing became steady, and you actually thought you could help him.

So, you tried. You wiped your face and all your tears and tried to flip him over.

_But he was so fucking heavy._

By the time you did your arms felt like jelly and you wanted to collapse.

Of course, you couldn’t rest until you checked he was alive. So, putting two fingers to his neck you felt around for a pulse. Fear was a bitch because the moment you couldn’t find it your hands started uncontrollably shaking, which made it even more difficult to continue trying.

But you found it. He was alive. You wanted to cry again.

God why did you have to be so _fragile?_

You weren’t sure what to do with him. You definitely needed something to give you energy again, but at the same time, you couldn’t just leave him.

Actually, you could because the guy was too out of it to move.

But if he woke up and realised you had just _left him on the floor_ to **eat** then he would probably _hate you._

The sofa. Your massive L shaped sofa was always perfect for crashing, so if this bitch wanted to crash, then the sofa it was.

But he was still _so fucking heavy._

At least you tried. Not all his limbs were on the sofa and you were pretty sure the guy would wake with a massive back ache but at least he wasn’t gonna die on the cold hard floor.

Just as you were about to give up and _finally_ eat the rest of your strawberries, you noticed a syringe sticking out of his rib.

Deciding that that probably wasn’t good, you pulled it out.

He flinched, and you jumped a metre away. Then he went back to being dead and your heart was still racing a million miles an hour.

This was actual living hell.

The guy was in your house uninvited and he was trespassing and he was _invading your safe space._

_‘Breathe’_

Jesus you hated her voice so much. But doing what you were told, from a fricking _ghost_ , you calmed down.

Strawberry time. You deserved it.

*

You finished your morning routine.

You resumed your tidying, did the dishes, laundry and even the vacuuming and the guy still didn’t wake.

You were fairly certain a marching band could walk by and he wouldn’t wake.

Checking he was still alive, you put two fingers to his throat again. His heart was still beating.

Actually, his heart rate had sped up. You couldn’t tell if that was good thing or a bad thing.

Either way, now you had more energy so you could _try_ to rearrange him on the sofa and make him more comfortable.

You were proud of yourself, now he looked like he was chilling.

Except now you didn’t know what to do with yourself.

You decided to draw.

Putting last night’s sketch pad away since it had been filled in completely, you took out a new one and waited for inspiration.

Apparently, your inspiration was on the sofa.

You had never drawn real life models before, since you couldn’t leave the house, but you thought it would be fun.

It kinda was. For the first in a long time, drawing had actually been calming, and not fuelled by horrific nightmares.

And besides, the guy didn’t have too bad a physique.

But that bulky red bat symbol on his chest made you worried. And you couldn’t tell at all what his face looked like, since a bright red helmet was in the way.

Made him easier to draw though.

You drew him for hours, moving around your living room to get different angles and close ups. He didn’t move at all.

It worried you again, so you checked his pulse. But before you could put your fingers to his throat, his hand grabbed your wrist.

Your heart was racing again,

_Touching was not allowed._

**_‘Don’t panic’_ **

Hard not to when a stranger with guns was squeezing your wrist like he wanted to break it.

But he crashed. He fell through your window and crashed. In his moment of crisis, _you_ took care of him.

He probably still needed taking care of.

He just needed reassuring.

“It’s okay.” You croaked out.

Damn it, your throat had gone dry again. Swallowing and clearing your throat, you tried again, in a much gentler voice.

“You’re okay. You’re safe.”

He made a mechanical grunting noise, you assumed it was from his helmet, and let go of your wrist, before collapsing back onto the sofa.

Well that was anticlimactic. All that fear for nothing because he was back to being dead.

Deciding you were exhausted of all the jump scares; you went to brush your teeth. After having so much coffee earlier, your teeth were feeling funny.

But you couldn’t look away from him for two seconds because when you peeked out the door to check on him, he was sitting up and bent over.

You paused in the bathroom doorway, toothbrush in mouth and panic starting to rise. But panicking was hard with a toothbrush in your mouth, because if you breathed in all you would breath in was toothpaste.

You didn’t wanna suffocate on toothpaste.

So, you stood there, staring at him as he looked up and stared back.

This was awkward.

Putting up your forefinger, as in _‘give me one minute’_ , you went back into the bathroom to finish brushing your teeth.

Time to take care of the drugged-up vigilante.

Walking over to the vigilante, who was still bent over, you knelt in front of him, trying to make him feel calmer.

“Are you in pain?”

He stared at you. You could tell he was sceptical, before he gently shook his head no.

“Do you want something to drink?”

He stared at you again, before rasping out a yes. Even with the mechanical filter you could hear how raw his throat was. He probably slept with his mouth open or something.

Getting up and going over to the kitchen, you grabbed a glass and filled it with tap water.

Damn, look at how calm you were. You were proud of yourself.

Walking back over to the vigilante, you sat beside him, but not too close, and handed him the glass.

He looked at you before grunting out “Cover your eyes.”

That scared you, before you rationalised that you weren’t allowed to see his face, and did what you were told.

Covering your eyes with your hand, you heard the _fsshh_ of his helmet coming off.

Panic was bubbling underneath the surface of your skin, you _hated_ not being able to see. But you bore with it, knowing you would probably be in more trouble if you didn’t.

You heard him take small sips, and then big gulps before placing the glass gently on the table. Then the click of his helmet going back on.

“It’s okay, you can look now.” His mechanical voice was back, and this was a much clearer version than his dry mouth voice.

Taking your hands off your eyes, you looked at him. He was sitting up straight, staring at the wall, thinking. The glass was empty on the table.

Slowly getting up so not to alarm him, you picked up the glass and walked back to the kitchen to clean it and put it away.

You were so god damn proud of yourself. Fear couldn’t get to you when you had to take care of another person. _It felt great._

But then you heard a crash, and your heart dropped.

Running back to the living room, the vigilante had fallen over and **flipped your coffee table.**

_Couldn’t leave him alone for **two seconds.**_

Running over to him, you gently tried to help him up. Gentle wasn’t working because the guy was still so _fucking heavy._

Apparently, all the stuff in his system wasn’t completely out, and he swayed back and forth.

“The rooms spinning.” He grunted out, pissed off, but refused to sit. Instead he leaned on you and tried to walk forward.

“Yeah well, that what happens when you get drugged.” You sassed out, starting to get mad the guy just won’t sit down. You were supporting most of his weight which was ridiculous considering your height and strength.

“Will you sit down! You were drugged for crying out loud, you can’t stand let alone walk!” The guy stared down at you, and you couldn’t tell if he was mad or surprised because of his god damn helmet, but either way, you felt incredibly small.

Deciding to listen to you, thank god, he shuffled backwards and crashed back onto the sofa, taking you with him.

Which was awful because _no touching was allowed_ and you were practically being crushed by this guy.

You were really starting not to like this guy. _Why couldn’t he just stay dead?_

 _No, that was mean. He needs help._ Lecturing yourself for thinking so cruelly, you wiggled out from under him and stood up in front of him.

You were the definition of frenzied. You were sweating and your face was all red.

Swallowing your fear, literally, you stood there and lectured him. “ _You_ crashed on _my_ floor, half dead and stupid, and I took care of you by giving you a comfortable sofa to crash on. And I will continue to take care of you until I think that you’re okay enough to leave, which you are not right now. You will stay here tonight and I will check on you in the morning and decide if you can go. But for now, keep your ass on that _god damn_ sofa because you are not walking anywhere.”

Silence.

Jesus you had never lectured someone that seriously before. Embarrassment burned your cheeks, because _god_ you must have sounded so _stupid_.

But apparently you didn’t, because after the guy got over his shock, he grunted out a “Fine.” before knocking his head back.

At least he had _some_ common sense. Except,

What to do now?

*

The vigilante never moved from the sofa. He drifted in and out of consciousness, and every time he woke up gave the same disgruntled noise of disapproval. He didn’t want to be here, but as far as you were concerned, he was gonna stay until he could walk straight.

You on the other hand? You were all over the place. One-minute reading, the next drawing, then TV, music, chess, cleaning again, you didn’t know what to do with yourself.

You _wanted_ to see Nevaeh, and after her morning, she probably wanted to see you too, but you just couldn’t with the vigilante in your house. Unless you moved him to your bedroom or something.

But then you didn’t want him to get the wrong idea.

You were just so _frustrated._

God you hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep for at least a week, and all your energy from coffee and strawberries was starting to wear off. If you had another coffee you were sure you were going to have a caffeine overdose.

That meant hospitals.

_You were not allowed to leave the house._

Shaking off the paranoia, you paced in your living room again.

Then you sat down.

Then you paced some more.

Then you sat down again.

And just as you were about to get up again, the vigilante grunted “Stay.”

So, you sat down.

You weren’t happy about being told what to do though. You glared at him from the corner of your eye, thinking, _I am not a dog._

Then your phone rang.

It was 6:13, Nevaeh must have just got home and was calling. God you missed her so much.

Walking into your bedroom, you sat down and answered the call.

“Yeeesss?” You answered in a silly tone.

“Heyyyy, how’s my bestie doing?” She asked, her voice just as silly as yours.

“M’good, m’good.” You lied. It’s not like you could tell her the truth. Imagine that conversation,

_“There’s a drugged-up vigilante on my sofa and I’m keeping him hostage until he’s better.”_

You think not. Instead, you asked “How’s you? You feeling better from this morning?”

“Yeah, I’m feeling much better, you know how life works. Work helps distract me and now I feel like it didn’t even happen.” She chuckled; her voice clearly less stressed.

Nevaeh was weird like that. Work didn’t stress her out. It wasn’t like she working her dream job, but she didn’t exactly hate it either. She just had this ability to be so _normal_ it was weird.

“Well that’s good. I’m glad you’re feeling better now.” You replied, groaning as you laid down on the bed. Jesus your muscles ached.

“Please don’t have an orgasm on the phone (y/n)” Nevaeh joked in reply to your groaning.

“Psshh I can’t help it your voice is just _so_ _sexy._ ” You joked back; hearing Nevaeh laugh loudly on the other side of the phone. Instantly you felt calm again.

If a safe space could ever be a person, Nevaeh was yours.

“M’kay well, have fun with yourself, because I gotta go, I reaallyy need a relaxing bath.” Wait she was going? But you weren’t done feeling better.

“Wait!” You shouted. She stopped and hummed, waiting for you to speak. Shit, what could you say?

“What did he look like?” You blurted out. _Stupid._ That doesn’t make any one feel better! You could have said a million different things to make her stay. Just because that one was on your mind didn’t mean you had to say it!

Stupid, _stupid, **stupid!**_

She was quiet over the phone for a while, and then “I didn’t see much, but I know he was wearing a red helmet.”


	3. The Vigilante

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: mega panic attack in this chapter.  
> next chapter should be more light hearted, so bear with me.  
> enjoy

_“I didn’t see much, but I know he was wearing a red helmet.”_

Your skin went _cold._ You bolted up right and you couldn’t breathe again.

He was in your _living room._

_He found you._

“Listen bub, I really gotta go, I love you ‘kay?” Her voice cut through the building panic, and like a reflex,

“I love you too.”

And with a click she was gone.

Now no one could help you.

_‘Don’t panic.’_

Not even _she_ couldn’t help you now. No one could help you.

_He was going to kill you._

You couldn’t breathe. The air was too thick.

**_You were going to die._ **

Clutching your chest, your head was swimming, sweat was coming out of every pore in your body. Your face was burning, tears brimming in your eyes.

**_ You were going to die alone. _ **

**_‘Calm down’_ **

She couldn’t stop you now, you were too far gone.

You were crying, sobbing, the tears weren’t stopping. Were you making any noise? You couldn’t hear anything other than that piercing ringing in your ears. You wanted to scream. But you couldn’t.

How could you?

You couldn’t breathe.

You fell off the bed, hitting the ground, _hard._ Your phone fell somewhere, but you didn’t care, because you could hear him.

He was walking over. He was coming to _kill you._

**_‘STOP PANICKING’_ **

She was so angry. You were going to die with her hating you.

There was a small knocking at the door, and he asked if you were okay.

_He asked if you were okay._

You would have laughed if you could breathe.

_He was going to kill you! Why would he care if you were okay?_

When you didn’t answer, he slowly opened the door.

You cried harder, snot running down your face along with the tears. The world was getting dizzy.

**_Oh god he was touching you._ **

“Hey! Hey!” he grabbed your face and made you look at him. Made you look at his _red_ helmet.

_Red_

**_Blood._ **

**_ Murderer _ **

“Breathe!”

You couldn’t.

“BREATHE!”

The world was getting dark.

“fuck.”

**_SMACK_ **

You stopped. And then you gasped. And then you coughed and coughed until you felt the bile coming up.

He grabbed the nearest bowl-shaped object and in it you threw up everything you had in you. All the strawberries, coffee and mostly bile. You shook the entire time, the tears still falling.

And when you were done, you breathed. In through your nose, out through your mouth. In through your nose, out through your mouth.

Exhaustion.

You leant against your bed, shoulders still trembling, every bone in your body tired. Your chest _ached,_ two panic attacks in two days.

Not good.

He sat there. Staring at you. The vigilante.

_No._

_The murderer._

But he took care of you. What kind of psycho would kill one person and then save another?

You stared at him, vomit on your chin, tears streaked down your cheeks, you _hated him._

“Are you okay?” He finally asked. And this time you did laugh. And then you cried. You curled up in a ball and cried.

He reached out for you, he pulled you against him, and he hugged you. He actually hugged you.

You _hated **this.**_

This whole situation has had you all kinds of fucked up since that god damn painting.

You were going to burn that painting and then burn yourself.

But god damn if he didn’t give good hugs.

You actually calmed down. With his hand rubbing on your back, his other hand pressing your head into his neck.

You could smell him. His scent. It was awful and amazing at the same time. Reminding you of a home you wanted to forget. A home full of cigarettes and alcohol.

But he also smelled like leather. Worn musky old leather. Like old journals and books. _That_ was calming. But there was something else.

If you weren’t psychic, you would have never known. He smelled like gun powder. _Because he’s a murderer._

And then you ripped away from the hug and rasped out “No more touching!”

His hands were in the air, his entire posture, full of surprise.

But he _helped_ you.

“But thank you. If you didn’t help me then…” You shivered. You could have passed out, or worse. _Suffocated._

Your hand went to your throat, and you stared at the floor.

“It’s alright. Sometimes things just get to be too much.”

You looked up at him, his helmet was still so _emotionless._

But he somehow understood.

But he was a _murderer._

You couldn’t afford to sympathise with that kind of monster.

Trying to stand up, and failing, the murderer ended up catching you and _again with the touching._

“I need a shower.” You rasped out, hoping he would get the message and _let you go._

“I’ll help you get there.”

 _Of course_ it wasn’t going to be that easy. He was determined to be _nice._

But he helped you get there, and when you got to the bathroom, he _finally_ stopped touching you. He let you go and you closed the door behind him.

 _Finally_. Away from _him_.

_Safe._

Stripping out of the sweat soaked clothes, you looked at yourself in the mirror.

God you hated what you saw.

Sickly pale skin, sunken in cheeks, black bags under bloodshot eyes, vomit still on your chin.

Disgusting. At least the shower would make you feel a little better.

Turning on the hot and cold water, to make it warm, you grabbed the comb from your small basket on the shelf and brushed your hair quickly before you got in. That way it wouldn’t become a wet tangled mess.

After you finished, you put the comb back in the basket and got in. Perfect temperature.

Your muscles slowly relaxed under the heat of the shower, the water beating against your skin gently, massaging away all the stress.

You _loved_ showers.

Cupping the water in your hands, you put it to your face and rubbed, finally getting rid of that vomit on your chin, and washing away the dried tears with clean warm water.

_Hmmm._

Perfectly _Safe._

After washing your hair and body, and shaving what needed to be shaved, you stepped out of the shower and dried off, brushing your teeth soon after.

And then you realised you had no clothes.

Either you walked out there with nothing but your _towel,_ or _he_ would have to get some clothes for you.

He would have to go into your _room_ , and through your _drawers._

But if you went out there in your towel, he would see the _scars._

Looking down at your legs, you saw the familiar stripes, and that _word._

 _‘Stop it’_ She reprimanded _._

You couldn’t even bare to look at it, let alone allow anyone else see it.

He would have to go through your drawers.

Wrapping your towel around yourself, and fighting off the growing embarrassment, you slowly cracked the door open.

He was still there, sitting on the sofa, but this time reading.

The drugs must have worn off, otherwise he still wouldn’t be able to see straight, let alone read.

God, how were you supposed to get his attention? You didn’t even know his _name._

No, you didn’t want to know.

Instead, you stood there, opening and closing your mouth like a goldfish out of water, unsure how to call for him.

Frustrated, and _embarrassed_ , God you had no need to be embarrassed, all you were asking him to do was to get you clothes.

Except you were in a _towel,_ and not even Nevaeh had seen you this exposed.

Such a _useless_ virgin.

Sighing, you licked your lips and _finally_ squeaked out “Excuse me.”

He looked up from the book he was reading, but didn’t say anything, he just gave you his undivided attention.

Swallowing the growing embarrassment, you squeaked out again “Do you mind getting me some clothes? I don’t have any in here.”

“Yeah, sure.” And then he got up and went into your room to get them.

It was that simple.

There was really no need to get worked up.

But as he got closer with clean clothes, you blushed harder and harder until even your chest was pink.

He held them out without a word, and silently you took them back into the bathroom, closing the door behind you and sinking to the floor to groan in your hands.

But when looking at the clothes he got you, your heart dropped. He got _shorts._

You wanted clothes so that you could _hide_ the scars, not show them off.

Also, where were the panties?!

He just what, expected you to go commando with short shorts?!

So, he was a pervert as well as a murderer. Figures.

You would have had a better chance in your towel. But he had given them to you and if you didn’t wear them, then you would seem rude.

But how were you supposed to cover up the scars?

Damn it, you would have to run.

Peeking again through the crack you made in the door, you saw him reading again.

_You could do it._

**_But you would look weird._ **

Fuck.

Maybe he wouldn’t notice?

Bullshit.

He was going to kill you anyway; he was gonna strip you and put you in cotton dress. He was going to see the scars when he killed you.

You barked out a laugh. When had cynical thinking become comforting?

Sighing, you pulled open the door and with your head held high you trotted on by, trying your hardest to keep the panic at bay.

He didn’t even look up.

When you got to your bedroom door, you stood there and stared at him. Why didn’t he look up?

If he was such a pervert then he would have ogled you without shame.

“You need anything?” he asked without looking up. You blushed, _hard_.

Shit, who knew getting caught staring was so embarrassing?

“M’fine.” You mumbled as you ran into your room and again, hid behind the door.

You could have sworn under the helmet he was smirking.

Smirking or not, now you could wear panties. You were going to change the shorts, but then you remembered that it was summer in Gotham and it was _humid._ Shorts were _necessary_.

You hated it when it was hot.

Did that mean he got you shorts because he wanted you to be comfortable?

Because he didn’t want you to overheat?

Because he was being a gentleman?

Bullshit.

Grabbing some knee-high socks to cover up the scars, you put them on.

And then you noticed he had cleaned up.

This guy was so fucking confusing! One minute he’s a murderer and a druggie, and the next he was a knight in shining armour? You groaned into your hands again.

Composing yourself, you walked out of your room and closed the door behind you. Leaning against it, you stared at the floor, not sure what to do.

You wanted to confront him. You wanted to figure out his game.

Why did he come here? Why would he help you? _When is he going to kill you?_

You looked up at the painting, still covered in the white sheet. If he was curious about what was under it, he didn’t ask.

_Unless he already knew._

“You alright?” His mechanical voice cutting through your thoughts.

You turned to look at him, but he was already staring at you, his book forgotten on the table.

 _‘breathe’_ She reminded you.

“Why do you have guns?” You asked him. You had no idea where the confidence came from, but It had been bugging you ever since he fell through your window.

Shit, it was dark now, how long had he been here?

“To kill people.”

Your body went rigid, and you stared at him. Then he threw his head back and laughed. _He was laughing at you?_

“Don’t worry doll, I only kill the bad guys.”

_“I only kill the bad guys.”_

It rang like a church bell, echoing in every part of your brain, finding every crack and crevice and _ringing louder._

_“I only kill the bad guys.”_

“But she wasn’t a bad guy.” You blurted before you could stop yourself.

He tilted his head slightly, confusion coming off him in waves. Great. Now he felt the exact same way you did.

Deciding to give him the courtesy of understanding, something he wouldn’t give you; you pulled the easel to face him before ripping the white sheet off, exposing him to your midnight horrors.

He went stock-still. Every muscle in his body tensed as he stared at the painting. And then his eyes shifted to yours.

You couldn’t see past the helmet and the white lenses, but you knew. You always knew. And his eyes were boring into yours so deeply, you felt like he was looking at your soul.

“Why did you kill her?!” You shouted. For some reason, you weren’t afraid. _You were angry._

You were never angry.

Maybe it was because you knew he was going to kill you anyway, maybe you wanted to understand _why_ , before you left this world without so much of a scratch on it.

Maybe it was because for the first time in a long time, you could hold someone accountable for their actions.

You could hurt one of the people that had been giving you nightmares since you were ten.

You could get _revenge._

Or you could do something _right._

No matter the reason, you were screaming.

“Why would you kill her?!”

“How was she a bad guy?!”

“What could she have possibly done to justify _this_?!” You gestured to the grotesque painting, feeling sick and full of dread just looking at it.

Then he got up. And so did your heart rate.

He stalked towards you, and you rapidly backed away until your back hit the kitchen counter.

Breathing was getting difficult again, and your eyes were brimming with tears.

You didn’t wanna go through this again.

You didn’t wanna have another panic attack.

_You didn’t wanna die._

He stood in front of you, so close that you could touch him.

But you wouldn’t.

Touching wasn’t allowed.

But he was that close, and he was leaning in, close enough that you could hear him whisper:

“I didn’t kill her.”

“You were there.” You whispered back instantly, desperate to hold him accountable, but afraid that if you broke this fragile quiet, he would kill you.

“Chasing the _actual_ psycho.” His voice got a little louder, like he was mad that you were accusing him. 

You paused, taking it in, _thinking_. Was it actually a case of wrong time, wrong place?

“You didn’t kill her?” You asked hopefully, your voice only going as loud as his, desperate to believe that there wasn’t a _monster_ in your house.

“No.”

And just like that, he walked away and sat back down on the sofa, as if he was never that close to begin with.

He sat there, bent over with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped together in front of his face, staring at the painting.

You sank to the floor, hand to your chest, breathing in through your nose and through your mouth.

_He didn’t kill her._

_He only kills bad guys._

“How bad?” you asked, staring at the vigilante on your sofa.

He looked back at you and hummed in confusion.

“How bad are the bad guys?” You clarified, hoping he didn’t just shoot every mugger or juvie he saw.

“ _Bad_.” He said, his voice laced with venom.

To be honest, it sounded like it clarified nothing, but you could feel the way the words left his lips, the hatred they carried with them. He killed only the worst, he killed psychopaths and monsters. Monsters like the man who massacred the woman in the painting.

Sighing, relief steadily flowing over you, you shakily stood up and slowly walked over to the sofa to sit next to the vigilante.

“I’m not going to kill you.” He said, his head turning to you.

You stared at him, figuring out if he was serious or not.

He was.

You relaxed, your head falling back and arms going slack beside you.

_He wasn’t going to kill you._

_He wasn’t a murderer._

_He wasn’t like you._

“This only happened this morning. You weren’t watching the news earlier and you weren’t painting, so how’d you know about it? How did you get it so… real?” He questioned you, his head still turned to you, but you couldn’t tell if he was mad or confused.

He was probably mad because he was confused. He seemed like that kind of person.

Sighing, you explained. “I have a thing called precognition. It runs in the family, mostly the women get it, but some guys have had it too. I’m not sure how far back it goes, but I know it definitely became more well known in our family around about the Salem Witch Trials. Our family almost went extinct in Salem.”

He leaned back to listen better, relaxed and interested in your story. You continued.

“My Grammy used to have it, but I never got to meet her, since she died on the day I was born. Instead my Papa had to help me control it. He just told me to do what Grammy did. Which was painting, drawing, anything that could help get the vision out of my head, to properly visualise what I saw, to see the big picture. Hence the millions of blank canvases and sketchpads around the room.” You gestured to your bookshelf, which was filled with sketchpads, and 5 stacked canvases underneath.

“So, you saw this,” He gestured to the painting in front of him. “and then painted it. When did you see it?” He asked, and you could feel him intently staring at you.

God when _did_ you see it? So many things had happened since that painting. But when you thought about it, it was actually only yesterday morning.

Time went too fast.

Sighing, you said “Yesterday morning was when I _finished_ it. But I think I woke up from the nightmare at about 11 the night before. I finished it at 8 in the morning, it took me whole 9 hours to complete.”

He nodded his head in understanding, and then blurted “Do you always have that little time before a murder happens? Or does it vary?”

“It varies,” you explained “if someone had planned a murder 3 weeks before it happens, then I would have the vision 3 weeks beforehand, but if someone planned the murder a day before doing it, then I would have it a day before it happened.”

He _ahhed_ in understanding, still nodding his head, the sound coming from the helmet sounding funny with the filter.

“So he didn’t really plan it, he just murdered her on a whim.” He said gravely and you shivered next to him.

_He just murdered her on a whim._

“It’s strange though, it looked like it took a lot of planning.” He continued to stare at the painting, puzzling over it.

“Maybe it wasn’t his plan.” You blurted before you could stop yourself. It was a valid input though, because it would explain how the time between the vision and the murder was so short.

He hummed next to you, not looking away from the painting.

“He didn’t feel like a team player though,” You continued to talk out loud, brainstorming and bouncing ideas of his bright red helmet.

That got his attention though, because he turned to you again and asked “What do you mean?”

You explained your powers a bit more. “When I get the visions of the murders, I’m always looking through the eyes of the murderer. Like its from their point of view. Like I’m the _murderer_.” You gulped and swallowed your guilt and continued “I can get a vibe of their feelings, who they are and such. I have a theory that if I ever met the murderer, then I would know who they are even if I had no idea what they look like. But I never leave the house so…”

“So if you walked around on the street and passed them you would know who they are?” He asked, his voice a little high pitched, excitement?

“Yeah, but I’m not going to. I can’t leave the house.” You said in a serious voice, knowing you were going to disappoint him when he asked why.

“Why can’t you leave the house?” He asked, his voice laced with confusion.

“Agoraphobia.” You explained. “The phobia of having a difficult escape route when having a panic attack, the phobia of having people judge you when having a panic attack, the phobia of having a panic attack outdoor or in public spaces.” You sighed, it was a lot to explain, but you had memorised it from every website you could find the definition on, so people would have a better understanding.

_So people wouldn’t judge you as harshly._

“Basically, I’m scared to leave the house because of multiple reasons all building up to one big panic disorder.”

He hummed in understanding next to you and then said “That’s alright, don’t push yourself past your limits until you’re ready.”

_That’s alright, don’t push yourself past your limits until you’re ready._

The only person who had ever been that kind about your phobia was, _Nevaeh_.

Looking up at your him, your cheeks flushed.

_Maybe he wasn’t that bad?_

Shaking your head, you mumbled a thanks and went back to thinking about the painting.

“Anyway, he might have planned it ages ago, but only decided to do it the night before. Like you can make a plan but not decided what time you’re going to go through with it. Hell, he might have just made a sketch years ago and then decided yesterday that he was gonna make it real. Peoples decisions change the future y’know?” You explained another theory, watching as he nodded his head again.

“That would make more sense, since it looked too, _planned_ , to be a whim.” He said agreeing with you.

“But that would mean he’s been wanting to kill people for a long time.” You said, making the air tense.

“ _Psychopaths_.” He said under his breath, the venom back in his voice.

Sighing, exhaustion creeping back into your bones, you yawned.

“Tired?” he asked.

“Mmhhmm.” You answered, rubbing your eyes. “Don’t really want to sleep though.”

“Do you get visions every night?” He asked, concern slipping in to his mechanical voice.

“No, but enough that my sleep pattern can be classed as an insomniac’s.” You said, your head falling back again. “It’s not just visions though. I go into these really creepy trances, where I just draw and draw and draw, until I have no space left in my sketchbook. Most of the psychic stuff happens at night. Papa used to say Grammy had a connection with the moon, heh.” You giggle at the idea; it just seemed a little too much for your taste.

“Why is that funny?” He asked not getting it.

“The word lunatic came from the moon? Because people seem to go crazy at night? And the psychic stuff happens at night?” You looked at him hoping he would get it.

He ahhed again in understanding and let his head fall back. You fell into a comfortable silence, and for once since he got here, you actually felt _calm_.

You hoped it stayed that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find typos in this story, I'm sorry, but let me know and will get straight on it and fix it. x


	4. The Psychic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so the notes at the beginning of chapters will be warnings and such, notes at the end of the chapter will be apologies and explanations as to why I'm late and inactive.

You woke to the smell of coffee, with the sun shining through your bedroom window and the morning radio playing through the apartment.

Groaning as you sat up and stretched, you looked through your open doorway and saw the vigilante in your kitchen cooking something.

_What the fuck?_

Climbing out of bed and padding over to the kitchen, you discovered the vigilante was making scrambled eggs and toast.

“Mornin’” He greeted you and turned around, giving your sleepy confused self, coffee. You took it but continued to stare at him in confusion.

Taking a sip of your coffee, and sighing at the warm bubbly feeling rising with it, you asked in a scrutinising voice “What are you doing?”

“Making breakfast, obviously.” He replied.

You checked the clock on the wall opposite you and saw it was 7:35. You didn’t think he would be the early riser.

“Yeah, I can see that, I meant _why_?” You inquired, sitting down at the kitchen table.

“Well, since you said I’m not allowed to leave until you think I’m okay,” he scoffed at the idea but continued “and I want to know more about your powers and visions, I figured I would stay.” He explained, sitting a plate in front of you with the cutlery, before taking his own seat to watch you.

You stared at the plate indecisively, feeling guilty because you _wanted_ to eat, but knew if you did you would probably throw up after. Pushing the plate away and looking back up at him, placing your elbows on the table and sipping your coffee, you said “That explains why you want to stay, not why you made breakfast.”

“I figured you would be hungry.” He shrugged his shoulders, his helmet gleaming brighter in the morning sun. “You aren’t?”

You made a short grunt noise and shrugged your shoulders, not wanting to talk about your eating disorder. You quickly said “I get morning nausea, what do you want to know?”

He leaned back in his chair, looking at you intently before he said “If you focus on him, could you get his face?”

You stopped sipping your coffee and stared at the table. You didn’t want to want to even think about him, let alone paint his face. The idea gave you a sick sense of dread in your stomach.

But you answered honestly, and then questioned him yourself. “Yeah, I could, but I thought you got his face? You were chasing him, weren’t you?”

He grunted in annoyance before he said “More like he was chasing me. I lost him after 5 minutes and then he jumped me, sedated me and followed me until I collapsed. Of course, I got here before I did collapse.” He shrugged at the last sentence and continued staring at you.

But you weren’t focusing on that, you were focusing on the fact that he was _following him._

_He saw him come in to the apartment._

_He knows where he is._

_He knows where you are._

**_He’s going to come back._ **

“Hey!”

You snapped your head up and answered with a “Huh?”

“You’re shaking, what’s wrong?” Shit, were you? You hadn’t even noticed.

You tried to apologise, but realised the lump in your throat was back. Swallowing the lump and chasing it down with coffee, you managed to croak out a “I’m fine.”

“If you’re worried about him finding this place, I don’t think he will.”

You paused and looked up at him expectantly, waiting for him to go on.

“If he saw me come in then he would have come to get me when I crashed. I was vulnerable and easy to take advantage of, but he wasn’t here, meaning he didn’t see me come in and he certainly doesn’t know about you.” You stared at him as you took it in, it made sense.

_You were safe._

“Besides, I kept watch last night, he doesn’t know about this place sweetheart.”

_He kept watch?_

Instead of _sleeping_ , he made sure you were _safe_.

Your cheeks grew warm with the confession, gratitude rising in your chest.

But in your silence, he continued to speak. “He could have killed me, if you didn’t take care of me. It was chance that your window was open by the fire escape, but after I fell through you could have just as easily called the police or the hospital. Instead you took care of me.”

You stared at him with anticipation, wondering what he was getting at.

“What I’m trying to say, is thank you.”

Oh.

Your cheeks flushed more with his gratitude. Not sure what to say you just hummed and sipped your coffee.

_You could thank him back_ , you thought.

He did stop your _massive_ panic attack, _and_ he cleaned up after you, _and_ he got you clothes, _comfortable_ clothes to help with the heat, and now that you thought about it, _he took you to bed._

You fell asleep on the sofa and he _carried_ you to your _bedroom_.

But before you could open your mouth, he opened his and spoke first. “So could you?”

“Could I what?” You asked in confusion.

“Paint his face?” He asked.

You choked on your coffee, the idea of picturing that monster making your throat tighten.

 _No_. You _really_ didn’t want to. But if you didn’t when he knew you could… he wouldn’t be happy.

You could save someone’s _life_.

That’s all he wanted.

But knowing what that _monster_ looked like would make him even scarier. Knowing someone could do that to another person…

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” He interjected, his mechanical voice cutting through the growing panic. You turned to him in shock.

“You’re shaking again.” He explained, concern lacing his voice.

Putting your coffee down and putting your hands in your lap, you breathed slowly, trying to calm yourself.

If only you could afford home-based therapy.

“I’m sorry.” You said dejectedly, unable to look him in the eyes.

“It’s alright, your scared, I get it, you don’t have to push yourself.” But you wanted to. You wanted to save someone’s life. It wasn’t okay.

“No, it’s _not_ alright. None of this is okay. I could save someone’s life! For the first time in forever, I _actually_ want to do the right thing, and I can’t because even thinking about him makes me want to panic and spiral out of control.” You balled your hands up in your lap, angry again, a new feeling that left a new type of burning in your chest.

He sat there, staring at you as you worked yourself up.

You felt so fucking _useless_.

Putting your elbows on the table and your head in your hands, you mumbled another “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to keep apologising, I _understand_ , don’t push yourself if it’s only going to harm your mental health. We want to help people, not harm them.” Peeking through your fingers you looked at him and his helmet. For some reason, you thought it would be a good idea to give a snarky response.

“A little hypocritical coming from you, isn’t it?” You said as you levelled him. You could sense the slight shock coming off him, but you wanted to get to the bottom of this.

“What do you mean?” He finally replied, putting his own elbows on the table and leaning forward to listen better.

“I _mean_ , you say that I shouldn’t push myself, but you do it all the time. I can sense it, you know, your trauma. It’s awful, and it constantly hurts you, but you still do what needs to be done.”

He was quiet as you stared at each other. But this silence was the opposite of the calm and comfortable silence you had yesterday. This one was like some was opening up a door they shouldn’t.

Daunting and desolate.

Clearing your throat, you backed away and sat up straight and mumbled out “Forget I said anything. It’s not my place.” But neither of you looked away from each other.

Instead, he continued and asked “What else can you _sense_?” in a deeper voice.

You sat there frozen, your chest getting tight and your heart beating too fast for it to be healthy. _What the hell was this?_ It was like you were terrified and excited at the same time. You opened and closed your mouth, not exactly sure what to do.

But then you felt it. He was smirking under the helmet again.

_He was doing this?_

He was _messing_ with you.

You could sense his feelings and it was making you react funny.

Idiot. _Stupid. **Childish**_.

Sighing in annoyance, you leant back on your chair and replied “Mostly everything, having a sixth sense and all that. Lies don’t work on me, and my predictions and guesses are always right.” You replied seriously, ignoring his previous intent.

He sat back too, copying your actions and humming in thought. “That could be useful. But if you have such a sixth sense, why did you think that I was the bad guy?”

“Because that’s what mental disorders do. They shout louder than all your senses and make you lose all rational thought.” You replied with snark, upset that he didn’t get it despite having his own demons.

He squinted his eyes at you as he said “But you said I was there. How did you know that?”

Shit.

Nevaeh saw him. She gave his description to the police.

_Shit._

Licking your lips, you avoided his eyes as you explained. “My friend, Nevaeh, she found the body when she was on her way to work. She saw you running away, and I guess she assumed that you did it. She gave the police your description and then called me after. She didn’t tell me what she saw until yesterday night. That’s why I had the panic attack.”

You looked up when you heard him say “ _shit_ ” under his breath. He was staring hard at the table, and you could sense the anger and panic building up in him.

“I’m sorry.” You said, hunching your shoulders.

He snapped his head up and frowned at you in confusion. “Why are you apologising? It’s not your fault.” He said, his voice stern, anger still coming off him in waves.

“I just, I feel bad that now everyone’s going to think you’re the bad guy. It’s not fair.” You explained, shrugging your shoulders.

He scoffed and said “Don’t worry doll, I’m used to people thinking I’m the bad guy.”

Well that didn’t make anyone feel better. But he ignored the tension building in the air and instead got back to talking about your powers.

“Is there anything else? Any other powers?”

Sighing, you followed his lead and ignored the previous sad statement and said “Maybe. I think I also have postcognition. The ability to know past events without having done prior research. Visions of the past to put it simply.” You sipped some more coffee, not wanting it to go cold.

“Except that’s only happened a few times, mostly when people have been lying to me and I wanted to know the truth. It feels different from precog.”

“How does it feel different?” he asked, tilting his head slightly.

“Precog feels like… a thunderstorm? It’s cold, you can’t see two feet in front of you, feels like a million needles piercing your skin, constant crashing and noises, it’s confusing and it sometimes gives me a headache. But postcog feels calmer. I haven’t had enough visions of the past to have a definite feel of it, but it just feels much clearer and calmer.”

He _ahhed_ in understanding, nodding his head. “Can you only predict things in your sleep or have you had visions when you were awake?”

“I’m not sure. The thing is, is that my Grammy didn’t live in Gotham, she lived in a small town where barely anything happened. She would only really be able to predict natural disasters and such, so she didn’t need to control it the way I do. And my Papa definitely didn’t know how to help me control it.”

He hummed again, his fingers tapping on the table as he thought.

Finally finishing your coffee, you picked up the cup and plate and put them on the counter and out of the way. Not wanting to throw away the food and insult the vigilante, you took out some food wrap and covered the plate, putting it away in the fridge.

Obviously later you were going to throw it away, but he didn’t have to know that. Washing your cup and then putting it away, you turned around to face the vigilante, leaning against the counter.

But he was still facing the table deep in thought.

“So,” you started off, breaking the silence and making him turn to look at you. “You seem much better. Have you had anything to eat or drink?”

He stared at you for a bit, wondering if you were serious or just making conversation. Realising you actually cared, he answered “I would have to take off my helmet again, and I know you don’t like covering your eyes, so I’ll just eat later.”

He got up and walked back over to the living room to stare at your painting, trying to find more clues in the artwork.

But you were frozen. He would rather not eat than make you uncomfortable? Since when was a gun toting vigilante so stupidly _selfless_?

Shaking your head, you walked over to stand beside him, not letting the conversation go. “It just makes me a little tense, it’s not that big of a deal. Please don’t starve yourself for my sake.”

He glanced at you before looking away, waving his hand in dismissal and grunting out “It’s fine.”

You didn’t want to let it go, but you were scared if you pushed too hard then he would get mad, and you actually enjoyed his company and you didn’t want to scare him off.

Sighing, you opened your mouth and suggested “Maybe you should wear a mask underneath the helmet, so you can eat and stuff. Also, in case your helmet gets broken or something.” He paid you no attention, and feeling slightly insulted that he ignored you, you walked away and started your morning routine. If that’s what he really wanted.

*

The whole morning routine took about 3 hours. It was 10:44 when you finished. The entire time the vigilante puzzled over the painting, taking pictures and making notes on some sort of phone. You just ignored him.

When you finished your morning routine, you collapsed on the sofa and scrolled through your phone. You weren’t sure what else to do.

Then the vigilante crashed next to you, copying your actions by scrolling through his own phone.

You eyed him next to you, wondering what he was up to, but then quickly looked away when he glanced over to you. You couldn’t see past the white lenses in his helmet, but you could feel his eyes on you.

It creeped you out that you had to rely on your powers to know what facial expressions he was making.

But now that you knew that he wasn’t a bad _bad_ guy you were calm enough around him to actually use your powers and not have a panic attack every 5 minutes.

When you actually took a minute to _think_ , you remembered that when he first fell through your window you didn’t get any evil vibes and you definitely didn’t feel like he was going to murder you. You only felt immense panic because it was such a weird situation.

Either way, you knew better now.

But you couldn’t stop _staring_.

There were a million questions you knew you weren’t allowed to know the answers to. Like who was he _really_? What’s his trauma? Why was he still here even after you answered all his questions and you told him, “ _you seem okay”_?

Sighing, you didn’t have enough energy for that much thinking, instead you just opened your mouth. But then closed it when he went to speak again.

Why was this guy always cutting you off without realising it?

“So, this trance thing you said happens at night, what exactly is it?” he asked, putting his phone away.

Sighing again, you really couldn’t be bothered. Where had all your energy gone?

Oh yeah, you hadn’t had coffee for 3 hours.

Exhaling, you answered tiredly. “It’s like, _current cognition_ , I guess? I go into this trance where the only thing I can do is draw things that are currently happening in my surrounding area. It’s usually crimes, small crimes like muggings or vandalism, sometimes a B’n’E, but that’s about it. I can never control what happens in the trances, so stuff tends to get knocked around.” You clarified, stretching and clicking your back.

“So, you have past, present and future sight?” He asked, putting his arm over the back of the sofa and turning to face you fully, giving off an aura of excitement.

“Yeah, I guess, I’m not sure about present sight since its usually a trance. I don’t know if I get visions or not since I never remember what happens during the trance.”

“You never remember?” He questioned, concern starting to become a familiar tone.

“Nope.” You answered with casual energy, shaking your head back and forth and popping the p.

He hummed in thought, and then asked “Have you ever gone into a trance with future visions? Or are the trances just for current cognition?”

“The trances are just for current cognition, or present sight as you put it.” you answered, turning to face him and copying his actions.

“So, lets clarify what you can do,” he suggested and you nodded along “You can see the past, present and future, but when you see the future it’s usually nightmares-”

“Always nightmares.” You cut him off, bouncing your leg again. He gave a concerned look before continuing.

“The future is always nightmares,” he continued “The present makes you go into trances where you draw crimes and other stuff happening around you?” he questioned, eyeing you to see if he was right, and when you gave an affirming nod he lifted his head and went on confidently “and the past are dreams too but you haven’t had enough dreams of the past to know anything else.”

“Yep, that about sums it up, but don’t forget about the sixth sense.” You said, wagging a finger goofily.

He hummed and smiled under his helmet.

There it was again, that comfortable silence. You didn’t need to speak anymore; everything was cleared up and he knew everything about your powers. But still, you wanted to speak.

“So, what are you gonna do now?” You asked. You had genuinely been wondering why he stayed for so long. He didn’t need to.

“Research, detective work and such. Do you have a computer?” he asked, looking around the room.

“Of course.” You said, hopping up to go get your laptop from your room. When you returned you handed him the laptop and sat back down, but pulled your legs up to your chest and hugged them, staring at the vigilante while he got to work.

He confused the shit out of you. Why was he still here? Why was he doing his _detective work_ here? Maybe he thought you could help him? Maybe-

“You okay?” he asked, looking up from the laptop. You hummed, your cheeks flushing a little.

“You’re staring at me, again.” He said, his voice monotone, but you could feel the slight twitch of his lips underneath the mask.

You wondered if he knew that you could tell what facial expressions he was making underneath his mask.

Either way, that didn’t stop you from feeling incredibly embarrassed about it.

“Sorry, I’m just…” you weren’t sure what to say. But he was still looking at you expectantly, waiting for an answer.

“You confuse me.” You answered honestly, your cheeks still burning as you stared at the floor.

“The feelings mutual.” Your head shot up as you looked at him and hummed in confusion and surprise.

“One minute your caring for me, the next your bossing me around, then you’re literally dying of terror. Then your adorably embarrassed and innocent because you need clothes, and then your furious and confrontational because you think I’m a murderer. And that was only _yesterday_.” He explained, looking at you pointedly.

Damn, when he said it like that you really did sound like a rollercoaster. Burying your face in your knees to hide your burning cheeks, you mumbled out a “sorry.”

“It’s alright. People can be unpredictable under pressure.” He explained, continuing to click away on the laptop.

Well if that was true, why was he calling you out on it?

Whipping your head around to glare at him, you blurted “Why are you still here?”

Shit. That sounded mean. Willing your cheeks _not_ to burn, you waited for him to get over his shock and answer.

“I can’t leave until its dark. Besides, I figured you could help. Sixth sense and always right guesses sound like they’re perfect for detective work.” He said, smirking slightly.

God would your cheeks ever stop burning? So the idea of being useful was _nice_ but it didn’t mean anything, Jesus.

Sighing, you said “Yeah okay, I’ll help. So, where do you wanna start?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry I didn't post last week, i wanted to but i always like having the next chapter done so that ways i can keep up and keep posting, but unfortunately i haven't been able to finish chapter 5 because i'm a chronic procrastinator and my creativity is going else where, but when i finish chapter 5 i will post it and then i will be taking a break to focus on my college work since i have less than a month to complete it eek. Anyways, hope you enjoyed this.


	5. The Investigation

The two of you did research for the rest of the morning, and well into the evening. The vigilante had made a list of all the things that stuck out to him about the painting and asked you which details felt like leads, and if you should follow them.

When you looked over the list and the painting, you became unsettled from the amount of feelings you got from so many little clues.

Some of the clues drew you in, made you want to research and investigate for hours on end, to never leave a road unturned until you had thoroughly searched it, until you knew _everything_ about the lead.

Other clues left you angry, made your blood boil and fists clench, made you want to rip that painting to shreds and then burn it in a dumpster. The detail and time and planning that monster took in hurting someone like that, the _pleasure_ that psychopath got from it. It made you furious.

But most of the clues left you terrified. Made your chest tight and the air too thick. Left you sweating like you were in a heatstroke, but covered in goose bumps and all your hairs on end like it was the coldest night of the year.

Those clues, the terrifying ones, were the ones that would lead you straight to him. So, you followed them.

The leads were: The plants, that wrapped around the body and cushioned it against the paved road. The cotton tunic, that the victim wore when she bled to death. And the weapons, that killed the victim and held her in place for all to watch as she died.

The location meant something too, but until the next murder happened, that clue would have to wait.

So, you got on with the investigation. You discussed and brainstormed each lead, and how they felt, and he listened.

He actually _listened_.

You thought that he would be more serious and do the investigation in a more conventional way than listening to the word of psychic, but apparently, you actually can’t judge a book by its cover.

Either way, you were making some progress. You had taken down the cork board from in your kitchen and hung it in your living room, to make your own crime board, and on it you hung everything you discussed.

You talked about the spears, and how they were not meant for actual battle, as the gold and silver was pure and much too soft for any kind of conflict. Therefore, they were for decoration, and the intricate carvings in the spears meant nothing other than to make it look pretty.

The sick bastard wanted to make her murder look pretty.

 _Disgusting_.

But this meant that they were expensive, and since there was 6 spears in total, that meant a hell of a lot of money. And the only people able to really afford to buy or make those spears was the high-class of Gotham, and you didn’t get the vibe that the murderer was living in luxury, so you made the call that he wasn’t high-class, and that he probably stole them.

The vigilante had told you that if the murderer stole them, then there was probably a police report, and so you had generously made a post it note on the crime board to remind him to hack into the GCPD database.

He chuckled after you, and you had smiled to yourself, proud of making something so serious a little silly.

But you weren’t done.

You continued and talked about how the gown was simple, but you could feel it being a constant. You made another note saying how the next victim was probably going to be wearing a gown too, and the one after that as well. Actually, every victim was going to wear one, and every gown was going to be covered in red.

It was frightening, but there was meaning behind it.

So, you got out some plain white paper and made a mind map of all the things a white cotton tunic could mean, and stuck that to the board too.

With the mind map in place, there were many ideas on the board. The vigilante piped up and said that whilst meaning was great and all, unless it could tell you where the murderer was, it was practically useless.

You gave him a look of annoyance and told him to stop being small minded, you weren’t done.

You made some more notes on the cork board, circling the phrases of pure and innocent underneath the word white. You then wrote the word ritual and made a small note underneath it of how it almost looked like a sacrifice, for people would be forced to wear simple things when these things happened, and usually virgins, who were connotated as pure and innocent, were usually sacrificed.

The vigilante then understood and let you carry on, but remained focused on you.

Feeling proud and confident, you stuck another note on the board with the idea to find out where the gown was bought from, and to see where it was delivered too, because the chances were that this guy probably bought in bulk with more murders in mind.

With the gown lead at its limit for the time being, you moved on to the plants.

The plants were a whole other lead. There were 6 types of plants in the scene, and all of them meant something. You told the vigilante that all of the main leads had something in common, that they were beautiful, but had deeper meaning behind them. They weren’t just for appearances.

He told you again, meaning can only go so far in helping you catch a murderer.

You gave him the middle finger.

You wrote a list of all the plants at the scene, and actually had to do some research on what some of them were.

 _That_ intrigued you.

The fact that you couldn’t instantly recognise the plants meant that they weren’t local, and he put effort into getting those specific plants.

Also, the arrangement was ugly. You weren’t a florist or any kind of master flower arranger, but with your creativity you could tell that the colours and placement were all wrong, and the flowers and plants that he used didn’t belong together at all. 

_What was he thinking?_

But when finding out what those specific flowers were, you came across the language of flowers, and it suddenly clicked in your head.

Everything had a double meaning.

In the 19th century floriography became more apparent, and everyone was using flowers to say what they were really feeling.

And the murderer was doing the same thing.

_He was leaving a message._

And the vigilante said meaning was useless.

You noted ‘flower language’ down and stuck it to the board. You had to see all your cards.

The victim was laid down on a bed of wheat, impaled by silver and gold spears, covered with beautiful intricate carvings.

You dug a little deeper and found out that wheat symbolised wealth and prosperity. So did silver and gold.

Well that didn’t make any sense.

The victim was just a civilian, and yet he pinned her down to die on a bed of wheat.

A bed of wealth.

But she was stabbed with wealth too.

So, what? Wealth killed her and left her to sleep on money?

But the killer wasn’t living in luxury. You knew this. But he insisted that money killed her.

Was money the motive?

He killed her for money?

No, she didn’t have money, she was just a civilian, a normal person. Like every girl in Gotham she was probably working 3 jobs to keep herself afloat because wages weren’t rising.

And yet…

You got a feeling there was more to her.

You made a post it note to ‘find out more about the victim’ and stuck it to the board.

There was a reason behind everything he did, and you had to find out if you wanted to catch him.

A cup of coffee was held in front of you, and you were brought out of your thoughts. The vigilante stood next to you, offering you a drink, and you generously took it.

You sighed after you sipped it, the warm drink soothing you and energising you at the same time.

God, how long had you been at this? You checked the clock next to you and read 3:28. Jesus, it had been at least 5 hours, and then some. Sighing, you walked over to your sofa and collapsed, desperately needing a break.

The vigilante followed you and sat next to you, his eyes watching you as you relaxed.

“You know, you’re pretty good at this, this being your first investigation an all.” The vigilante’s mechanical voice complimenting you as you continued to revel in the comfort of coffee. You hummed in agreement, his praise making your cheeks warm.

“Well, you did say that being psychic is perfect for detective work.”

He smiled at your smug tone, and the apartment was comfortably quiet, save for the ticking of the clock and the cars on the street.

But your thoughts were still racing. You still hadn’t broken down what any of the other plants meant, and yet you were already stuck. It was frustrating.

Sighing, you thought about the other leads, and wondered how they would pan out. Actually, you thought a lot about how the vigilante would get the details you needed. Without the answers to the questions on the board, you were never going to get any further.

You decided asking him was the best option.

Except he cut you off before you could even speak.

Rude.

“It’s going to start getting dark at around half 8, are you going to be okay with me leaving around then?”

“Of course, why wouldn’t I be? You’re not a prisoner.” You said, all the while slurping up that sweet, sweet caffeine.

“I just, don’t want you having another panic attack or something.”

That made you pause.

You weren’t sure how feel about that. On one hand, it felt kind of insulting that he thought of you so fragile after you had _literally_ accused him of murder whilst thinking he was a murderer, on the other hand, it felt nice that he cared so much. That he didn’t want to leave you in case you got into trouble again.

That he wanted you to be okay.

You also weren’t sure if your cheeks were flushing from anger or from fondness.

Either way you wanted to tell him to go fuck himself. But you didn’t, instead you answered calmly and said “I’ll be fine, unless the murderer literally knocks on my door then I don’t think I’ll have another panic attack.”

He hummed in thought before saying “Okay. I’ll leave at half eight then.”

He went quiet again, but you could feel him holding back. He wanted to say something, but wasn’t sure how to phrase it, and you knew that the longer he waited the more his confidence would drift and he would never be able to say it, so you asked him:

“Is there anything else?”

He gawked at you for a bit before smiling to himself, he was starting to appreciate your sixth sense. But then he turned serious and said “Are you sure you want to help with this investigation?”

You gave him a look that said ‘ _really_?’ but answered seriously and said “Of course, I literally have a crime board on my wall and the meaning of flowers favourited on my home page, I’m in this and I wanna be.”

You placed your cup on the coffee table and turned to him properly so he could see you were being serious, but he was still doubtful.

“Are you _sure_ though? It’s dangerous, getting involved with this kind of life. You could be seriously hurt if anybody knows about you. Are you prepared to take that risk?”

You contemplated his words, but your mind was still set. You understood, and you were prepared.

“I think I’ve been scared since the day I was born. I’ve always had anxiety; I don’t actually remember a time when I didn’t have anxiety. I’m always scared of being hurt, or killed. And for my entire life I’ve hidden away and never helped anybody when I could have. I could have done _so_ much, and prevented _so_ many bad things from happening, but I didn’t. I just stayed indoors, scared of my own shadow, and pretending that I can’t do anything because I’m not enough.”

You paused, and let him take in your words, before continuing.

“But then a drugged up stubborn vigilante crashed through my window and died on my floor.” He chuckled and you smiled to yourself. It really was that crazy.

“I was terrified. A person who I had never met before that was ten times bigger than me invaded my safe space and decided to die in it. I didn’t know what to do, and I cried. But I got over it, and knew if I didn’t help you then you would be worse off. Besides, you were literally in my house, it was either help you or throw you out the window.” You both laughed quietly at that.

“And then I thought you were a murderer and I almost killed myself panicking. But then you stopped me from suffocating and brought me back down to earth. You took care of me and cleaned up what mess I had made and got me clothes and just, helped.”

“It felt nice. I really appreciate you helping me.” Your cheeks flushed as you smiled and played with the hem of your shirt. But then you bit your lip in thought and said “I was going somewhere with this, what was it?”

He snickered and reminded you “You were convincing me why you want to be a part of this investigation.”

“Oh, yeah. Right, the point is, I thought you were a psychopath who was going to kill me and I still confronted you. I literally faced my fear, and it turned out to be okay. I’m scared all the time, of literally everything, and for way too long it has stopped me from doing the right thing.”

“But now, I have you.” Your face lit up like a traffic light, but you ignored your growing embarrassment and continued. “Your proof that I can get over it, that I can face my fear and do the right thing, even when I think I’m going to die. And I can do more. I _want_ to do more. I want to make up for all the times I could have done something but didn’t, and I want to do the _right thing._ Isn’t that enough?” 

He looked at you fondly as you peered up at him, and your face grew brighter.

_Why was he looking at you like that?_

“Yeah, that is enough. I’ll leave at half eight, but I’ll be back tomorrow night to see if you have any other visions or if you come up with anything else, okay?” His voice was monotone, but his face still had that smile on it. 

You squeaked out a small “Yeah” and then got up to go to the kitchen. If he wasn’t going to stop looking at you like that then you were going to not look at him period. Besides, you were starving, and you were craving the donuts Neveah had bought you yesterday.

*

After your conversation with the vigilante, you had had a small something to eat and then got back to work. You did eventually ask him how he was going to continue to follow the leads, but he just said something about having the right friends and that was it.

Either way he promised he would get answers.

And you decided you would too.

Continuing your translation of the flowers was difficult when you focused on one flower at a time. With each plant you translated, you just got more and more confused. They made no sense; the meanings had no relation and sometimes they even contradicted.

Wheat implied wealth, but thyme, which wrapped around her head and ankles, implied thriftiness. Thriftiness meant being careful with money, but she died on bed of money? Money killed her, but the victim was careful?

It made no sense.

Until you stopped translating each and every meaning, one at a time. You rationed that flower language was like every other language, and a word on its own would be useless, until it’s put in a sentence. And if every flower was one word then the solution was obvious.

Translate the whole sentence.

So, you did. You searched every flower and plant and leaf that was in the scene, without stopping to pause and ponder what each meant, and came up with some more confusing messages, and some that cleared the air.

The body was pinned to a bed of wheat, impaled with silver and gold spears. Three bouquets of thyme crowned her head, and acacia choked her. A single red dahlia rested between her breasts. From her neck down to her ankles, a sprinkling of tulip tree leaves and acanthus flowers covered her, but the white gown turning red was still visible. A bouquet of thyme was strapped to each of her ankles.

That was the scene, and each placement of the plants meant something, and now you knew what it was.

Wheat meant wealth, as did gold and silver. Thyme meant thriftiness, and acacia meant secret love. Red dahlia meant betrayal and dishonesty, tulip tree leaves meant fame, and acanthus meant art. The white gown symbolised purity and the blood symbolised hatred and death.

If you were to put those meanings in the scene, some of the fog was lifted.

The victim slept on a bed of money, and it was money that killed her. Thriftiness crowned her, and a secret love choked her. Betrayal and dishonesty were at her core. She was covered in fame and art, but it couldn’t hide the corruption of purity. Thriftiness was also at her feet.

You knew there was more to the victim. She may have been just a civilian, but everybody has secrets, and you made the guess that she was having an affair.

Secret love? Betrayal and dishonesty? The corruption of purity? It just made sense.

The fame and art? From the moment you had the vision you knew he was an artist. Or at least that’s what the murderer thought he was. He was psychotic. He actually believed he was creating a work of art, and now he thought he was famous.

To be true, he kinda was. With every murder he would be on the news, and all his work would be available for all to see.

But the money? And the thriftiness? It still confused you.

Sighing, you dragged your hands down your face and groaned into them, venting your frustration.

You hated when you got blocked. Whether it was art block or writers block or even a psychic block, you hated it.

And you couldn’t afford to get blocked, not when the pyscho was still out there, probably already primed and ready for another murder, waiting to act out his deepest fantasies.

Groaning, you stretched and clicked your back. Deciding you needed a break, you walked over to the bathroom to refresh. You peed, washed your hands and face, and brushed your teeth.

It was small acts of hygiene that cleared you up, but made you feel much better. With your body rid of waste, your face cleared of dirt and your mouth renewed with fresh minty taste, you were okay again.

Feeling better, you walked back over to the board to look at it again. If you were blocked, then there was something you were missing. You were lacking inspiration, and that wasn’t allowed.

When facing writers block, it was usually just some paragraphs that needed rewriting because the story didn’t flow well enough. You just needed to look back and find that something that needed to be rewritten.

Something that didn’t sit right, and needed to be changed.

You looked back over the crime board, looking out for any ‘feelers’, things that might have triggered your sixth sense and screamed they weren’t right.

The spears were an okay lead. You felt a little iffy thinking about them, but other than that it was fine.

The gown was going to go somewhere, that was for sure.

But the plants…

It needed to be further broken down.

You took down all the scribbles and notes you had made about the plants and put them on the coffee table. Collapsing on the sofa, you sorted through them and looked over each one, trying to find the source of your discomfort.

You made two piles, one of facts that were right, and facts that were wrong.

Most of the facts were right, the plants were sending a message, the murderer was telling the world that she wasn’t as innocent as everyone thought the victim was. She had a dirty secret, one that probably hurt somebody.

But how did the murderer know that?

Either he had a personal connection with the victim, or he stalked her. You figured he must have stalked her, because you knew that he was going to kill again, and unless he was going to kill everyone in his life, then he wasn’t targeting people he loved.

He was targeting people with dirty secrets.

You wrote another note and added it to the ‘right’ pile.

Besides, the murderer was a loner. He was working alone, and living alone. He couldn’t kill anyone he loved because there was nobody he loved. He was your usual, over imaginative psychopath.

There were two notes left. Wheat and thyme. Wealth and thriftiness.

The wealth was right, you were sure of it.

She was killed with money, and then left to die on it. But being an average citizen in Gotham, she couldn’t have had money.

Except… That idea felt off to you. The idea of this victim struggling for money, working 3 jobs just to survive, coming home exhausted every night, it wasn’t truth.

She came home perfectly fine because she was working only one job, one that definitely didn’t pay enough, but she was still okay.

So, who’s money did she sleep on?

_Who was she sleeping with?_

Her secret love, the bed of money, it was all linked. She _actually_ had a sugar daddy. And she was _lying_ about it. Cheating on someone who probably adored her just for money?

Bitch.

You made more notes, writing down how she wasn’t struggling for money because she was sleeping with some who had it. That’s why she slept on wealth. The bed of money wasn’t hers.

But the spears? She was killed with money, you were certain.

But you knew that the murderer wasn’t living in luxury, you felt it. In your vision he had a scrappy rusted van that was barely working, he was wearing scratchy clothes and he felt greasy and tired like he hadn’t showered for at least a week.

He could have been some homeless guy for all you knew, because that’s what it felt like when you had your vision.

But the thought of saying he wasn’t high class, the thought of saying he wasn’t rich… it wasn’t the truth either.

You had guessed earlier and said he wasn’t high class because of your vision, but after channelling your sixth sense and properly focusing it you could tell that guess was wrong.

Which infuriated you, because what? Some rich, respected guy liked putting on a homeless outfit to kill liars? You had no idea who this guy was, and he was really starting to piss you off.

You couldn’t get a proper feel for this guy at all. He wasn’t high class, but he wasn’t poor either. He didn’t have a status or a class, he just existed and never made a mark or an impression on the world until he killed somebody. Which didn’t help narrow down who he was at all.

It was infuriating.

But you put the idea on the board, along with everything else. You couldn’t leave anything unturned; you had to look and understand _every_ possibility.

The only thing that was left, was thyme.

The meaning, it wasn’t right. Thyme didn’t mean thrifty; the victim certainly didn’t have any problems with spending the money her sugar daddy gave her.

Which meant that thyme meant something else.

There were 3 bouquets of thyme at her head, and 2 at her feet. What did that mean?

If everything had a double meaning, then thyme had to as well.

Words sometimes had double meanings, did thyme mean something other than the plant?

Was he talking about _actual_ time? Were the 3 bouquets referencing when he started placing the body, at 3 in the morning?

Was the 2 referencing when he was going to place the next one?

Yes, it was. It made sense, and you could feel it being absolutely correct.

This was the thing that needed to be rewritten, and now the story made sense.

The victim was a dirty little liar, a cheater and materialist, greedy for money. The murderer had been stalking her, and knew that she was bad news. He killed her, but left a message. Telling the world who she was, but at the same time, letting the world see her as beautiful and pure for one last time.

But the murderer couldn’t help himself, and hinted towards who he was too, and when he was going to place the next body.

But only the smart would be able to decode the message, or in your case, the psychic.

*

The vigilante had praised you when you told him what you had discovered, what all the flowers meant and how you could build a profile of the victim from them and your senses. How you knew what time the next body was going to drop, and when you got your next vision, you would know where it was.

Unfortunately, you didn’t know what day it was going to be, but you promised him when you next had a vision you would pay attention to _all_ the details, and try your hardest to find out.

But either way, you were one clue away from catching him. You had the time, you would eventually have a vision of the location and maybe the day, all you had to do was wait.

_You were so close._

You were vibrating with so much energy and pride, that when the vigilante left at half eight like he said he would, you were only a little sad to see him go.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, you couldn’t decide if it was good thing or not, the vigilante had to take all your notes with him.

He said he needed them so he could make copies, and you assumed it was to make his own crime board. You understood and got a folder, and basically created a case file. 

After giving it to him, you made him promise to give you copies of any new notes about the leads, and he promised he would. He assured you that you were apart of this now, and considering how far you got in only a day, he would be stupid not to include you any further.

You beamed with pride and did a little dance in your living room when he finally left, you were so close!

You were so fucking awesome.

Your phones jazzy ringtone filled the apartment, and you were brought out of thoughts. Skipping over to the coffee table, you picked it up and squealed when you saw it was Neveah.

Today just got more and more awesome.

“Halloo?” You answered in a funny voice, happiness coming off you in waves.

“Heeeyyy!” Neveah answered back, her mood just as bright and as cheery as yours. “How’s you?”

“I’m good, I’m good.” You replied, crashing on the sofa and putting your feet on the coffee table, “What about you?”

“Yeah, I’m okay, had to do a little over time to earn the raise I need, my feet are _killing_ me from running around all day, but I’m good.” You heard her sigh over the phone, and you imagined she was in her car, finally sitting down and ready to go home. “What have you been up to today?”

You cringed at the thought of telling her the truth, but then you also cringed at the thought of lying to her. It wasn’t fair, but at the same time, the truth, you felt, was _worse_.

“Eh, not much, I’ve just been online trying to find someone who wants to buy my paintings, no luck yet, but it’ll be okay.” It was a half-truth; yeah you hadn’t actually been searching, but you hadn’t found a buyer either sooo…

“I’m sure it will,” she agreed “some goth or horror fan always loves your paintings.”

You hummed in agreement, and your phone call became quiet.

But something was wrong. Your happy demeanour suddenly vanished and was replaced by sickening tension.

Usually when you and Nevaeh fell quiet in conversations, it was natural and comfortable. You could just exist in each other’s presence and not need to say anything, being perfectly okay with who you were.

But this quiet was not comfortable.

This quiet felt like Nevaeh was thinking about something.

Thinking about something she did.

Thinking about whether or not she should _tell you_.

Ignoring the growing panic, you called her name.

You had to sort this out, _now_.

“Yeah?” She answered.

“Is there something you need to tell me?” You questioned, playing with the hem of your shirt nervously.

She was quiet for a while, and then “We need to talk.”

“I’m listening.” You replied instantly, hoping it wasn’t as bad as you felt it becoming.

“No, it, it needs to be face to face.” You heard her sigh, and you pictured her running her hands down her face in frustration.

You _hated_ this. You felt utterly powerless.

What was so important that you needed to talk face to face?

Was she mad? Was she disappointed? Did she find out about the vigilante? Did she know about you lying? Did she-

“Can we meet tomorrow? I finish work early and I can pop round and make lunch?” Her voice cut through your rising panic, and you took a deep breath to calm down. She wasn’t allowed to know how much power she held over you; you would feel pathetic if she knew that one sentence could cause you to spiral.

Clearing you throat you answered “Yeah, lunch sounds good. But nothing too heavy okay?”

You were actually proud of how steady you kept your voice.

“Make it light, got it. I love you, see you tomorrow.”

“I love you too, bye.” And with a click, she was gone, and you were left alone again.

What did you do wrong this time?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now that I've finally managed to get chapter 5 done I can get on with my college holiday homework and not fall behind before I've even got in lol. But this does mean that I won't be posting chapters as regularly, and when I start college I will probably only post once a month so can keep focused on my future. Thank you for reading and staying with the story, I hope you enjoyed x


	6. Broken Promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major self harm warning!! Please, please, PLEASE if you find self harm triggering do NOT read this!! Other than that enjoy xx

Mental illnesses were, to put it simply, _hell_.

You had spent the whole evening, night and morning trying to stay out of a panic attack.

You hadn’t moved an inch from the sofa since Nevaeh had called you, and your entire body was aching from being tensed all night with the thought that she could want to talk about _anything_. 

You were exhausted, starved and terrified.

Your sleep had been fretful, only really drifting off when you got too tired to keep your swollen, teary eyes open, but then you would wake up with a start and remember that Nevaeh wanted to talk.

She wanted to talk _face to face._

And then that thought would spiral, and it would create a million awful scenarios that would have you on the edge of a panic attack, suffocating, _dying_ , each breath more difficult to reach than the last. But just before you could pass out, her God damn awful voice would come through screaming and demand you stop.

Her voice was never kind, but for some reason you only heard it when you needed help.

When you needed control.

She always had too much control.

But now you had none. Except it didn’t feel much different from everyday life. You didn’t have control over your visions or your senses, you didn’t have control over your ideas or mental illnesses, you didn’t have control over anything.

You always thought that if she left your life, you would have control again. That you wouldn’t be insecure and you could live your life without her berating you and making you feel like you couldn’t do anything. You wouldn’t depend on her if she wasn’t in your life.

But now she was in only _your_ life. She never left, just further cemented her place in it and made your life even worse because you could never forget anything. A constant reminder of everything that happened.

God you were spiralling again. You dug your nails into your legs, trying to ground yourself, but only succeeded in scratching and hurting yourself.

God you _hated_ yourself.

You could never do anything right could you?

You were a pathetic oversensitive **fuckup** who spiralled out of control _all_ the time, only needing one sentence to become a pathetic piece of shit not worth anybody’s time.

You let out a sob and dugs your nails deeper, the burning stinging pain of breaking skin barely matching the unbearably tight pain in your chest.

You were barely breathing, mostly gasping for air as you continued your assault on your legs.

You weren’t supposed to be doing this.

You were supposed to be getting better.

You hadn’t hurt yourself in 3 months.

_What would Nevaeh think?_

You ripped your hands away from your legs, bringing them to your chest and cuddling them, gasping at the state you had left yourself.

You sobbed, the tears unstoppable and the air to thick and heavy to breathe.

Your legs were scratched to hell. Long, thick, _deep_ scratches covered your legs from knee to ankle, most of them deep enough to bleed and drip to your bare feet, staining the sofa.

Yes, you hated yourself. But you loved Nevaeh, and you _promised_ her you would try.

And you just broke your promise.

Because you were the shittiest piece of scum to ever live on earth.

You wanted to hurt yourself more. Your fingers twitched, and you caught yourself thinking, you’ve already done it, so why stop now?

But if you did anymore, then she would _pity_ you. And you would prove just how out of control you are.

The frustration of being unable to decide was getting to you, and you put your head in your hands, gripping at your hair, rocking back and forth with agony.

Just decide!

Self-harm or don’t, it’s not that hard!

You screamed in your knees, pummelling your head with frustration.

You stopped once your hands were burning with a dull ache that left them shaking, and your head pounding so hard you thought it would deafen the street. You breathed in a long deep breath and exhaled, calming yourself.

Except you weren’t really calm, just steadily becoming numb as you gently let your head fall back, and you stared at the ceiling. You thought of nothing but the blank white above you, waiting for the pounding and aching to go, your cheeks permanently wet from the never-ending stream of tears.

When your legs started to sting, you got up and limped to your bathroom, finally deciding that enough was enough.

Self-harm wasn’t the solution, and Nevaeh would believe that you _don’t deserve this._

Getting out your medical kit from your bathroom cabinet, you tended to your self-inflicted wounds.

You cleaned the wounds with cold water and a tiny bit of medical disinfectant, despising the unbearable sting that came with it. But it was needed, so you pressed on. You skilfully dressed the wounds in bandages, having done this many times before.

You sighed after you were done, your place on the bathroom floor was cold, as was the rest of the house.

You were tied to the sofa for the whole night, so you couldn’t turn on the heating for the cold morning, but thankfully it was summer, so the house would heat up quickly even if the sun didn’t want to come out.

Gradually standing up on shaky legs, you leant on the sink and looked at yourself in the mirror. 

You still hated yourself.

But you had to take care of yourself so Neveah wouldn’t know about the hectic night you had. So she wouldn’t know how about how much power she had over you.

Turning on the cold water, you splashed some in your face to freshen and wake up. The water couldn’t get rid of the eyebags or the sunken cheeks or the sickly pale complexion you owned, but that didn’t matter. That was what you always looked like anyway.

What did mater was getting rid of the runny red nose and the swollen teary eyes, which the water did away with soon after it hit your face.

Now Nevaeh would be none the wiser.

You knew it was irrational. Being scared of Nevaeh knowing how much she meant to you. She probably already knew, you were too expressive to hide anything, especially feelings.

But it was always about power. The idea that she could find out, or already knows about how much you depend on her…

It could go so wrong so fast.

It happened once before, with _her_. Now her voice was stuck in your head.

You didn’t want another voice stuck in your head.

So Nevaeh wasn’t allowed to know. You would put on fresh clothes, have some coffee and a banana and get on with your morning routine. You would act as if nothing had happened, and that you were fine since you last spoke.

Which is exactly what you did.

It always took about three hours to clean the whole apartment, and since you had started at about half 5 in the morning, you were done by half 8.

So, you had lots of time to kill before Nevaeh would arrive, and you had no idea what to do with it.

You were sat on the sofa, playing with the strings on your jogging bottoms, frustrated and bored. Usually you would search for a buyer for your new painting, but you also didn’t know If you would need It for future use, now that you were involved in the case an all.

Hmm, the case. You wanted to work on it some more, see if there was anything else, even though you knew there wasn’t.

It just, felt good. To break down something and understand it. Like solving a crossword puzzle. But it also felt good knowing that your abilities were finally helping people, and that soon you were going to catch the bad guy.

It felt _really_ good.

But you couldn’t work on it, the vigilante had taken the case file and literally everything except the painting.

You sighed in frustration. If only you weren’t such a coward, you could have been breaking down paintings a long time ago.

But then again, how far would you have _really_ gotten without the vigilante’s help?

You couldn’t hack into the GCPD and find out if the spears were stolen, you couldn’t figure out where the gowns were bought from, you couldn’t even leave the house! There was no way you could be a detective, especially on your own.

You guessed it was fate that the drugged-up vigilante fell through your window and crashed on your floor.

How silly.

But it did get you thinking.

Despite the fact that the vigilante was in your house for over 24 hours, you still didn’t catch his name.

Obviously he couldn’t go around telling people who he was, but his code name. You didn’t know it.

The only vigilantes you had heard of was Batman and Robin. You knew there was more, but you felt that seeking them out would get you in trouble, even if it was just their names.

Stupid paranoia.

But being scared of them now seemed so silly after everything that happened. They were only human.

Humans with incredible abilities.

But they still bled. Maybe they got scared just like you? Wouldn’t that be crazy? People not afraid to jump from one _building_ to another, being scared like you?

Nah. You were scared of jumping down from chairs, they weren’t like you at all. They were a whole other kind of human.

But still. They had lives, and you wondered what your vigilantes name was.

Probably something with red in it since he had a bright red helmet. Research was the only way to know.

So you searched ‘Vigilante with red helmet’ into the google search bar on your phone.

Lots of things came up, eBay adds for red helmets and vigilante costumes mostly, but a Wikipedia page about _The Red Hood_ caught your eye.

Your senses screamed that that was the right one.

You clicked on it maybe a little too gleefully and started reading. Nobody knew who he was, obviously. He used guns, sometimes rubber bullets, sometimes real ones. He occasionally worked with Batman, occasionally fought him. Theorised to be a master fighter, and the debate continued on whether he was a vigilante or antihero.

Either way, his methods weren’t the best, his morals a little clouded, but he was still trying to be on the good side. And that made you smile.

He wasn’t just some murderer saying that he was right, he was a vigilante that actually _cared_. And you weren’t biased either, he had helped you when you needed it, when you were suffocating, he brought you back from the edge.

And he didn’t just save your life, he cleaned up and made you breakfast, even though you didn’t eat it. He _cared_ , and he was still trying to save more lives by catching the new monster that prowled Gotham’s streets.

He was a good guy, who made mistakes and shot some people, but you imagined that anyone in Gotham who dressed up and became a vigilante had some issues that clouded moral judgement, so how could you blame him?

Besides, you weren’t any better. You had made just as bad mistakes that still haunted you, but what mattered was that now you were trying to redeem yourself, and you guessed he was too.

He was a good guy, and that thought is what kept your spirits up for the rest of the morning.

*

It was half one when she called to tell you she just finished work and that she was on her way. You were sitting at the kitchen table, scrolling through your phone whilst anxiously awaiting her arrival.

It was half 2 when she finally arrived, apologising for being late, but wanted to grab some things from the store before she came over. You were still sitting at the table, jiggling your leg in anxiety but trying to ignore it, and instead focusing on the fact that she was making a fruit platter for lunch.

You loved fruit. It was healthy and tasted good, and it didn’t make you want to instantly throw up from the thought of gaining weight. And it was a positive distraction from your never-ending anxiety.

“So, how has your morning been?” Nevaeh asked whilst peeling apples, her back turned to you.

“Uneventful,” Liar. “what about yours?”

“Same, still trying to earn that raise but my boss is being so stingy about it, but I know I’m wearing her down. Have you found a buyer for your new painting yet?” She asked, washing off the peeler and grabbing a knife to chop the apples into slices.

“Nah, but I know I’ll find one soon. Besides, I still have some small paintings in the back of the closet that need selling, so I’ll probably sell those first and hold onto the new one for a while.”

That way you could keep the painting in case you needed it for future use in the case, but also still earn money.

“You’re going to hold onto the new one?” She inquired. “I thought you would want to get rid off it as soon as possible, you seemed pretty upset after you painted it.”

“I was, still am, but if I try to sell it so soon after the murder just happened then it could attract unwanted attention, and-” a shiver running down your spine interrupted you, and you swallowed the growing lump in your throat to restart your sentence.

“If I try to sell it so soon after the murder then it could attract unwanted attention, like the police. Or _worse_.”

You expected Nevaeh to comfort you after your statement, to tell you that if you do what you’ve always done then you would be fine. That if you keep your head down and wait till it all blows over then it would be fine and you could keep living your safe, albeit sheltered life.

What you didn’t expect was for her to say nothing, and to keep chopping the apples in a solemn silence.

And suddenly that dread from last night was back.

She was thinking about the thing she did again.

Oh god, the panic was coming back again. Silence should not make you spiral so quickly. Determined to keep a lid on your emotions you cleared your throat and called her name.

She hummed to show she was listening, but continued to chop the apples with her back turned to you.

“You wanted to talk.” You stated, jiggling your leg underneath the table.

“We should eat first.” She finished chopping the apples and placed them on a plate, then moved to grab some berries and wash them under the tap.

“If it’s as bad as I think it is, then I’ll probably throw up in panic. Better to throw up nothing than a full stomach.”

She sighed as she put the berries on the counter, and then braced herself against it, hanging her head in torment.

She wanted to tell you, because she wanted to feel better about doing it. If she came clean then it wouldn’t be eating her up inside.

But she also didn’t want to _hurt_ you.

“When was the last time you ate?” She asked worriedly, knowing that depending on how severe the secret was then you would either not be able to eat for a week or you wouldn’t stop eating until you threw up.

She always cared so much, that you found it hard to believe that she would do a bad thing and hurt you. But the increasing panic wasn’t alone. It had your sixth sense right next to it, screaming that she did something she regrets.

You weren’t just crazy, she did something _bad_. How were you still breathing?

“(Y/n)” she called, bringing you out of your thoughts.

“I ate a banana this morning.” You answered honestly, hoping that she would just tell you what she did and get it over with.

She sighed and stood up straight, nodding her head, thinking of a way to tell you in the nicest way possible. She turned around to face you and lent with her back against the counter, quickly looking away when she met your eyes.

“Would it be so bad if the police got involved?”

“You didn’t.”

“Would it?” She asked more sternly, meeting your eyes with an emotion you hadn’t previously seen directed at you before.

 _Anger_.

That look shook you. You thought you would be the angry one. She broke your promise and _sold you out_.

And yet she was the angry one, and you were frozen in your seat, unsure how you were the bad guy.

“I’m sorry.” She sighed and shook her head, like she was physically shaking out the negativity.

What the hell was going on? The mood in the room was all over the place and your sixth sense had no direction.

“I just, get frustrated with you sometimes.”

“Wow, thanks, that’s a really nice thing to say, Nevaeh.” You said sarcastically, kinda pissed off at her and how confused you were.

“Wait, no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, I just-” She sighed and rubbed her temples, and you waited patiently for her to gather her bearings. 

“I found the body, (y/n).” She continued. “I found the body and I saw what that monster did to her, how much blood there was and how it was covering the street and how-” her voice cracked as she put her head in her hands and tried to keep her composure.

She stood up straight and exhaled, looking you in the eye as she spoke. “You could help people.”

“You could have- I don’t know. I know there was only a day before the murder happened but you could have done _something_. I don’t know, I just-”

She took a deep breath and looked up, like she was asking a higher power for strength before looking you directly in the eye and saying,

_“You didn’t tell me she was still alive.”_

That’s why she was so upset. She didn’t just find a body, she found a _person_ , who was bleeding to death and probably _begging_ for someone to save her.

Nevaeh felt powerless and couldn’t save her, so she was unknowingly blaming you for not doing anything because she felt bad that she also did nothing.

With her mouth turned into frown and her brows furrowed, she looked angry. But her eyes were glazing over with tears, and you _knew_.

You stood up from your seat and walked over to her, before gently put your arms around her. She tensed before you put a hand on her back and rubbed soothingly, which relaxed her enough to bury her head into your shoulder and let it out.

“It’s alright, I know it feels like shit when you can’t do anything. When you feel like you could have done something, _anything_ else to save someone, but ultimately you didn’t and they died. I know, I understand.”

“No, no you don’t.” She sobbed, gripping onto your shirt desperately as she shattered with grief.

“I-I-I watched her _die_.”

“I j-just _stood_ there, and did _nothing_ , and-and she begged for me to save her but I didn’t kn-know what to _do_.”

You held her back just as desperately as she did to you, burying your face into her shoulder as well, knowing all too well what she was going through, and hating that she had experienced it too.

“What could you have done?”

“What could you have honestly done, Nevaeh?”

“You have no medical skills, you couldn’t have stopped the bleeding, there were to many wounds.”

“I-I-I could have gotten there earlier.” She sobbed out, still crying out into your steadily becoming damp t-shirt.

“No, Nevaeh. You couldn’t have. And besides, what would you have done if you had, hm? Fought the lunatic that did this? Be your own Batman? Not likely. Honey, it’s okay to not be able to do things, even when it means other people get hurt. You can’t do everything, and it would be ridiculous to ask that of you.”

She was still crying into your shirt, and still desperately holding onto you, but she was calming down a little. She was listening, desperate to believe that everything was okay.

“It’s alright honey, you’re not alone, and you’re allowed to be afraid. You couldn’t have done anything, and that’s okay, it’s not your job to stop people like this. Your job is crunching numbers and appealing to the people, not fighting bad guys in skin tight suits.”

She giggled into your shoulder tearily and said “You wish I was a vigilante in a skin tight suit. I would be the sexiest one out there.”

You chuckled as you held her, your hand still rubbing her back soothingly as you agreed to her statement.

“Yes, you would. I would be your number one fan.”

She hummed as she nuzzled your shoulder, her tears stopping and drying as she calmed down.

“I’m sorry.” She said meekly as you continued your embrace in the kitchen.

“It’s alright, your allowed to have emotions.”

“No, I mean, for blaming you.”

You sighed as you continued to hold her, listening patiently.

“I was upset, and I wanted to do something, _anything_ , so I told the police about you. How you were psychic and that you could help catch the bad guy, because you can. You have the ability to stop a bad thing before it even it happens, but you don’t. And I was angry at you for wasting that potential to do good, because I couldn’t. So I told them, and I broke my promise that I would keep your abilities a secret and I blamed you for not doing something because I did nothing too.”

“I’m sorry.”

You held her silently as she confessed and cried into your shoulder again, feeling guilty and awful for betraying your trust.

But you couldn’t be angry. How could you when she was this upset about it? You couldn’t hate her because she was already hating herself.

“As long as you don’t do it again, then its okay.”

“I won’t, I promise I won’t.” She shook her head in anguish, the idea of lying again repulsive to her.

“Then it’s okay.” You rubbed you hand on her back again, soothing her and calming her down. “It’s just a matter of whether they believed you.”

“I don’t think they did.” She informed you as she stepped back from the embrace and wiped her eyes. “They were treating me like I was a crazy person. Only entertaining the idea to make sure I didn’t break down.” She sniffled as she wiped her tears on her sweater sleeve.

“Yeah, that tends to be people’s reactions to the weird and wonderful.”

She chuckled in response to you, and seeing her smile again was all that was needed to make the room lighter.

“Alright,” She started “now that that’s out of the way, shall we continue with lunch?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I suck at keeping up with schedules, I said I would post once a month but like, I live to disappoint, so I'm moving my schedule to every two months or something idk we'll see, I guess I'll post when I post. I created a new Tumblr blog just for my AO3 stories so like if u wanna check it out its called panicandprocrastinatestories, on there I will update about timing and you can ask me anything about the story, except for spoilers:). I hope you had fun reading! xx


	7. 3am Converstaions

The air was thick and hot, your open windows doing nothing for the stale summer air that was suffocating your apartment, and instead just filling it with restless noise from the street below.

You were sitting on your living room floor, trying to ignore the sticky and uncomfortable sweat covering your entire body, and instead trying to focus on pricing the small but grotesque paintings surrounding you.

Nevaeh left at around half 6, when you started getting out your nightmares and pricing them. She never liked seeing them more times than she had too.

But you had too. You didn’t have the luxury of pretending they didn’t exist, and instead had to stare and judge how much each one might cost depending on the detail and horror in each painting.

You had more, larger paintings stored in the tiny storage closet open in front of you, but you wanted to work your way up. If you were doing a big sale then it was best to start small and reel in a crowd of buyers, that way when you sold the larger ones, they would be sold quickly by strong horror fans.

Which was great because you were struggling for money lately, and had several bills due.

But you couldn’t keep your mind focused on anything. The unbreathable air, the maddening noise from outside, the never-ending stream of thoughts and worries _inside_ your head.

_Nevaeh told the police._

Yeah, sure, they barely believed her, but what would happen when they got desperate and came knocking? A part of you was screaming they would, and you couldn’t tell if it was just plain old anxiety or actually your sixth sense, which made you worried _more_.

And what would you tell the Red Hood? How would you tell him that your supposed best friend that you thought you could trust with everything just sold you out? You knew she felt bad, and you understood why and forgave her, but you were still bitter and scared.

How would you tell him? You were still struggling to wrap your head around it yourself, and the anxiety was eating you up.

You sighed and got up from the floor, walking to the bathroom to splash some cold water on your face to wake up and get your bearings. You couldn’t spiral now, you hadn’t slept in at least 24 hours, and you had had a good lunch, if you were to spiral and panic now, then you would probably throw up all the nutrition you desperately needed and then pass out.

And the vigilante was supposedly coming back, so the thought of him catching you in such a vulnerable position sounded awful and terrifying.

You had to stay calm and get your shit together.

*

“Hey! Hey, wake up!”

“Hmm?”

You blinked your bleary eyes open to see what was shaking you and shouting in your face, and squinted them in confusion, trying to process what you saw.

The Red Hood was kneeling in front of you, dishevelled and distressed, holding your shoulders with a tight grip in worry. His blood splattered jacket had fallen off one shoulder, and his helmet was chipped a little.

“M’ fine.” You grumbled out as you swatted his hands away, pissed that he had woken you up and touched you again, even though you had told him several times not too.

He let go of your arms hastily once he realised what he was doing, and said “Sorry, I thought you were in trouble.”

“No, I was just tired. Accidently fell asleep.” You explained whilst yawning and stretching.

You motioned for him to get out of your way so you could stand up, and the vigilante backed away to take a proper look at all the horror filled paintings surrounding you.

“So, are these new or…?” He asked, his aura tainted with concern.

“They’re old.” You said whilst stepping over the piles to tread towards your kitchen and get a cup of coffee. Preferably an expresso. With the Red Hood here, you would need to be informed on the case, and you couldn’t do that when you felt like you were going to fall back asleep.

“What happened to your legs?” His mechanical voice called out.

Shit.

You froze.

Your legs were covered in bandages, and they were plain to see with the shorts you had put on earlier. You would have kept on the joggers that you wore when Nevaeh came to see you, but it was unbearable with the humid night air.

You stood there, half way in the kitchen and half out of it, your eyes darting around looking for any kind of excuse.

And then they landed on the kettle.

“Uhm… I, spilled hot water on them. Kettle water. I dropped the kettle. On my legs…” You cringed as you stared at the Kettle to the side of you, hoping to god he believed you even though you were a terrible liar.

“You’re a terrible liar.” He remarked.

Fuck.

“I, uhm, may have gotten… emotional, earlier today. Or yesterday. What time is it?” You quickly asked, trying to change the subject so you wouldn’t have to admit to a guy that you were sure was more messed up than you that you self-harmed.

“Emotional?”

“Umm. Yeah. Emotional. I took it out on myself.” You regrettably explained as you stared at the clock on your living room wall, trying to ignore the Red Hood staring at you with intense worry, and instead trying to process that it was 2:46 in the morning, and that it was in fact yesterday morning that your hurt yourself.

“Why?”

“Huh?” You turned around to look at him in scrutiny, because _what do mean ‘why?’_

“Why would you take it out on yourself? Why not something else?” You frowned harder at his questions, getting agitated at him and his prying questions.

“Because…? I don’t know. I said I was emotional, I wasn’t thinking, I just hated myself and I was panicking and I thought the pain would ground me? Why am I telling you this?”

“Because you’ve been waiting for someone to ask.”

_Because you’ve been waiting for someone to ask._

You stared at him, your mouth slack and heart doing something that it really shouldn’t.

_How the fuck would he know?_

You wanted to be angry, at his arrogance for saying something with such confidence, to assume that he would know you.

 _But he did know you_. Or at least the feeling. He understood. _Again_.

Fuck.

How could he say something so casually like it didn’t just throw you into the pit of unintelligible feelings?

“Whatever, just, do whatever you came back here for.” You said with a frown, walking back into the kitchen to actually make your coffee.

You heard him grunt and walk into the Kitchen, and sit at your dining table.

“I came back to ask if you had anymore visions, and inform you on where the case is going.”

Shit, he did say that before he left.

Sighing, you turned around to face him. “I haven’t had any more visions, or trances. Just a bad night’s sleep.”

“Hm, why?”

Again? Why? Who did he think he was? Your therapist?

But it did make you feel kinda warm and gooey that he cared. Oh God no your ears were getting warm.

Disgusting, you were feeling loved.

But he did deserve to know about what Nevaeh did.

Sighing, you began. “After you left Nevaeh called, and she said she wanted to talk, but didn’t tell me why. All I knew was that she did something bad and it kept me up. I spiralled and got emotional and thought the worst and ended up hurting myself. But she came around yesterday after work and we had lunch and spoke about it.”

“What did you speak about?”

You started playing with the hem of your shirt in worry, not sure how to tell him other than to just say it.

“She told the police, about me. Being a psychic.”

You let it hang there, the worry and anxiety that you had bottled up into a simple sentence, and let him process it.

“Did they believe her?”

“No.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about.”

“Mmm.” He was right. “But what if they get desperate and have no other choice but to talk to me? I can’t tell if my sixth sense is telling me they are or if its anxiety. Sometimes when things are too far in the future then I can’t tell what it is. And that makes me think that we won’t catch the bad guy as quickly as I thought we would because it so far in th-”

“Hey.”

You stopped and held your breath, not realizing that you had been rambling.

“It’s going to be okay.” He said gently, and you breathed, calming enough to listen to what he was about to say.

“We usually leave the police a trail to keep them busy,” He started “either to make sure they actually get evidence or just to keep them out of the way, so they won’t come to you when they get desperate because we keep them busy. Besides, they’re looking for me remember? They won’t bother you; I promise.”

You listened and nodded along to his words agreeing as they made sense. The police wouldn’t come knocking.

The coffee machine behind you beeped, and you jumped a little, the noise scaring you out of your thoughts. Calming down, you turned around to make an expresso.

“So, what about your day?” You asked him.

“Hm, same old, same old.”

“The blood on your jacket isn’t old. What happened?” You inquired, wondering why he was being less open now. Did something bad happen?

“It’s from patrol. Felt angry, so I took it out on some thugs.”

Something bad definitely happened. He was slouching in the dining chair, legs spread and tapping his finger against the table. He was trying to act like he didn’t care, but the frown on his face showed that he did.

Good thing he didn’t know that you could feel his facial expressions.

“Why were you angry?” You asked in a soft voice. You wanted him to open up, and doing it gently would probably be the best option.

“It was nothing, just some stupid family drama. Anyway, that’s not why I came here. We should talk about the case.”

He was really trying to keep you out, wasn’t he? But then again it was probably for the best, if it was family drama then hell knows you should walk in the opposite direction. What did you know about family?

“Uh, yeah, so what did you find out?”

“All the plants and gowns were ordered online and delivered, you were right, he bought in bulk. He has 14 gowns left from that one delivery, and he ordered more plants. You were right about the serial killer thing. He will kill again.”

You hummed and contemplated his words whilst sipping your coffee. Sometimes you really hated your gift.

“Go on.” You prompted.

“We’re not sure where he’s getting his weapons from. There was nothing in the police database about stolen spears, and nothing about stolen weapons at all. And he didn’t order them, because they were antiques, no serial number on them, so no place where they were manufactured. Do you have any ideas?”

You hummed as you thought about it, but didn’t get any particular helpful feelings. They felt close to the murderer, but that was about it. Nothing helpful at all.

You shrugged your shoulders and apologised, explaining you couldn’t feel anything.

He sighed, but continued to tell you what he had discovered about the case. “We found out that he had it delivered to an apartment in the narrows, and we thought he might be lower class like you said, but It costs a lot of money to buy everything he did, and the middle class would struggle to afford what he bought, so we still can’t rule anything out.”

“Sounds like he’s trying to confuse you. He’s probably new money or upper class, and he’s using the narrows to lead you on a wild goose chase.” You suggested, still not sure what to feel about the bad guy.

“Maybe, his methods are extremely detailed and he’s planned out every step, but he also wants to brag about his murders, so I was right to assume he’s a psychopath, since those are psychopathic symptoms. That’s one motive at least. What are your senses saying about him?”

You sighed and sipped your coffee, trying to hone your feelings a bit more and see what they said, but it still just came up with nothing but a foggy feeling.

“Nothing. I get nothing when I think about him. Just, fear and pain. There’s like this fog, this cloud of something in my head, my chest gets tight and it seems harder to breathe, but other than that I can’t feel anything. _Like he doesn’t exist_.”

He listened and nodded his head along with what you said, thinking.

“What does the name Anthony Brand feel like to you?” He asked rather abruptly.

“Anthony Brand? Mmm, stupid? It sounds made up. Why?” You placed your expresso down and leant on the table, closer to the vigilante, interested in what this new guy had to do with things.

“That’s the person who owned the apartment, where the stuff was dropped off to. The guys gone now, but he owned it when it was dropped off. He disappeared two days after, like he just, never existed.”

“You think it might be the bad guy? That he used an alias?” You leant a little closer, getting really interested.

“I don’t know. What do you feel?”

You sat back and thought about it, closing your eyes and focusing on the name, _Anthony Brand_.

It was difficult, the fog was still there, but… maybe a little clearer? It was still painful and tight in your chest, the more you thought about it the more you felt your arm hairs standing on end, but it was easy to see.

Anthony Brand.

It was close, the name was similar to the bad guys…

It felt like it was almost pronounced the same…

Anthony Brand…

 _A_ nthony _B_ rand…

 _A_ …. _B_ ….

Your eyes shot open as you exclaimed: “They’re the same initials. A.B. He used his initials for his alias.”

“You’re sure about this?” He asked, sitting up straight, looking you dead in the eye to make sure that you weren’t playing around.

“Mhm. It feels right, it feels scarier, but I know it’s right. The closer I get to feeling who he is the more scared I get. I know I’m right.”

He nodded his head and pulled out his phone, sending a quick text to somebody before putting it away and sitting back again.

“Good, that gets us closer. Good job.”

You looked away as you felt your face heat with the praise. Being useful really did feel good.

“Is there anything else?” You asked, wanting to chase the feeling of usefulness.

“Not really, we already checked out the apartment just to be sure, but found nothing. After that we just patrolled as usual.” He said, shrugging his shoulders.

“Hmm” You hummed as you listened, but tapped your nails against your mug in contemplation. Deciding to just go for it, you asked “Um, why do you keep saying we?”

He had been saying it the whole time, like he was working with someone else, and it made you slightly nervous. You didn’t want to meet anybody else; this shit was scary enough as it was.

“Oh, I have contacts that are helping me get information. Don’t worry, you can trust them. They’re… good people.”

You pondered his words as you picked up your expresso and sipped it, thinking. If he can trust them, a vigilante whose job is to literally not trust anybody, then surely _you_ could too right? Besides, he wasn’t lying, you would have felt it if he believed any differently.

“Uh, cool, I guess. Who are they?” You asked. If they were going to be working in the case, and he said you could trust them, then it would be best to know who they are right?

“Oh, you wouldn’t know them.”

“Obviously, that’s why I’m asking.” You smirked over the top of your mug as you sipped it, looking at him as his face broke into stupid open mouth grin. He was shocked, but found your sass funny, thank god.

“One of them is a behind the scenes person, she hacks and watches the whole of Gotham through the cameras in the streets.” He explained, the grin fading to a small smile.

“She sounds badass, what’s her name?”

“She is, her names Oracle.”

“Oh, like the Greek thing where they see everything?” You asked excitedly, putting your cup down as he hummed in agreement.

“I didn’t know you knew anything about Greek mythology.” He asked curiously.

“Only a little. When I was younger, I was obsessed with magic and fantasy and all things mythological, so I always read stories and stuff about it. Sometimes I thought I could find an explanation for my powers in stuff like that.” You explained fondly, holding your cup and smiling at the memories of the actual good times in your life.

You heard him hum as his listened, clearly engaged in your story. Sighing, you asked him what he was interested in.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on. You gotta have some hobby besides beating the shit out of people.”

He chuckled at that and then inhaled, contemplating telling you.

“I like literature.”

“Oh? Interesting. What’s your favourite book?” You asked, curiosity eating you up.

He sighed as he thought about it, his eyes drifting through your apartment, deep in thought.

“Frankenstein, maybe? I’ve always been a fan of Shakespeare though.” He said fondly, relaxed and comfortable with the conversation.

“Oh my god, you’re a fucking theatre nerd.” You said with an open mouth grin, shock and awe consuming you.

“Hey! Its thespian _actually_ , and I take it as a compliment.” He said back, his joy just as bright as yours.

“You would, wouldn’t you?” You chuffed. This was nice. Comfortable and calm, you didn’t need to worry about anything else other than getting to know each other. It was good.

“What’s your favourite play?” You asked, finishing the rest of your coffee.

“Hamlet. Macbeth is a close second.”

“MM!” You agreed enthusiastically as you swallowed your drink. “We did Macbeth in high-school. I don’t remember much, but it was better than Romeo and Juliet.” You grinned at the memories, understanding why he liked it.

“Hmm, yeah. I prefer tragedies over romance. What school did you go to?” he asked, his mechanical voice becoming somewhat of a calming thing to you.

“Technically Romeo and Juliet is both, but yeah, romance isn’t the best unless you’re in love or something. And I went to the high-school a couple blocks from here, on Frazer street.”

“Seriously? You live that close to your old school?” He asked questionably.

“I never moved.” You said, shrugging your shoulders, starting to get a bad feeling about where this conversation was going.

“You mean this is your childhood home?” He asked, looking around. “You didn’t move out?”

“I got agoraphobia before I could.” You said solemnly. Did the conversation really have to go this way?

“Oh.” Was all he said. Great, you killed the perfect mood you had going on.

“So, it’s just you living here?” He asked quietly, obviously trying to be gentle, but also wanting to know more.

“Yeah, it’s just me.” In a childhood home that didn’t give you much of a childhood.

“What about the rest of your family?” He asked gently again, but it could only go so far with his helmets voice moderator.

You sighed, tapping the side of your empty mug. You should be open with him. He would probably figure it out on his own anyway, with that Oracle he’s got on his side he would be able to find out _everything_.

And suddenly it was a really bad idea to be open at all.

If he found out what happened… You held the mug tighter, panic starting to bubble in your chest, squeezing the life out of what little happiness you just had.

No, you couldn’t bear the thought of having to explain yourself, to rip open that old wound.

She was nothing but a voice in your head now, and it would stay that way. He wasn’t allowed to know anything. Nothing at all!

“Hey.” He called out, gently but firmly. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t want to.” You said shakily, still gripping your mug with a death grip, enough to turn your knuckles white.

“Then you don’t have to. Let’s get back to the case. Here.” He pulled out a memory stick from his jacket and placed it on the table, along with a burner phone. “Oracle digitized all your notes and findings, along with more evidence and leads. This way you don’t have a bulky case file you have to open every time you want to look back at something. All you have to do is plug it into your computer and it’s all there, along with a connection to Oracle herself should you need to speak to her.”

You listened intently as he explained, and your ears became warm as you calmed down.

“And this a burner phone,” He clarified, picking it up to show you. “It’s to contact me if you’re in danger, or if you have another vision. The only contact in it is mine, and I can also use it to call you if I need too. That’s both me and Oracle you can speak to at any time should you need too, okay?”

You nodded as you listened, your ears almost steaming, feeling so incredibly cared for it almost hurt. They actually took time out of their day to make all your findings more accessible and then both left forms of communication should you need them.

You didn’t even know this Oracle woman! And she was already there if you needed her.

God, you wanted to cry, ugh.

Taking a deep breath to get your bearings, you said “Thanks, I’ll call you if I need you. And please thank Oracle for sorting out my notes. It was kind of her.”

“I will.”

You smiled as the Red Hood started talking again, asking you about how long you’ve been friends with Nevaeh and what she does, trying to keep you distracted from the brief thoughts of your hellish past. He was good person, and you were happy that you got the chance to be friends with him.

You could really get used to this. To him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm late again! But I've been so busy with college and it's been draining me of all my energy and motivation that I just couldn't find any inspiration to write or anything, but it's here!! I tried my hardest to fill it up with as much fluff as I could, so I hope all you sweet tooth's are satiated. Again I have a Tumblr, it's https://panicandprocrastinatestories.tumblr.com/ and it's where I post updates on my progress and/or timing issues, and I will also be adding chapters there. You can ask any questions you have there and I will gladly answer, except for spoilers :) I hope you all enjoyed reading, love you !! xx


	8. Auditory Hallucinations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major WARNING! This chapter has very dark themes, and focuses heavily on eating disorders, violence and murder. Please, if you are sensitive to any of those things please do not read. I do not encourage any of these things and ask you not to repeat them. Other than that, enjoy x

It had been a couple days since you last spoke to the Red Hood. Since then nothing had really happened. You had managed to sell a couple paintings, so you had a good bit of money in your bank now, and could finally pay those bills that were pestering you.

You had had a couple trances in between, but other than that life was as calm as could ever be.

However, the media wasn’t. The news on the tv and in the paper and on social media was going absolutely haywire about this new murderer.

And they didn’t even know he was a serial killer.

It frightened you, to see everybody giving this guy the attention and fame he wanted, to encourage him to kill again.

They didn’t even know they were doing it, they thought they were just spreading awareness, trying to look out for each other and to not get killed. But they didn’t know anything about the murderer, the motive behind his killings, the how, the when, the where.

They had no idea at all.

How were they supposed to look out for each other when they didn’t even know what they were looking out for?

You would have thought that Gothamites would have learned by now, not to talk about the murderers or psychopaths, since it actually encourages their behaviour. Or at least they should have gotten used to stuff like this so as not to be bothered to talk about it.

But no, everyone couldn’t stop trying to find a name for this guy.

It frustrated you to no end, that people were so obsessed with one murderer. Honestly, it wasn’t that big of a deal.

But maybe you just thought that because you had become partially desensitised to it, through all your terrible midnight terrors.

Sighing, you turned off your phone and put it on the coffee table, needing a break from all the constant violence in the city.

You got up and walked to your kitchen, feeling peckish.

Actually, you were starved, you felt like your stomach was going to eat itself, and it _hurt_. But you knew if you ate anything heavy you would throw up, either by reflex because you weren’t used to it or because you just felt… fat.

You opened your fridge and stared at the mostly empty shelves, feeling shaky, but still feeling absolutely terrified to eat.

There was still the plate of scrambled eggs and toast in the fridge, and it was going off, so you picked it up and emptied it, washing the plate.

You still didn’t want to eat, but you also did at the same time.

There was one way you could settle your indecision…

You walked to your bathroom, pulled out the scale, stripped your clothes and looked at your weight.

It was torture every time, but still, you did it.

The numbers still weren’t small enough for you, but looking up at the mirror, your eyes glazed over.

You would never actually be happy, would you?

You were skin and bones, your ribs were clear to see and your cheeks were sunken in. Your skin was so pale that you looked almost see through.

You were _sick_.

You knew it.

But that didn’t hurt you as much as the thought of being fat.

That thought actually made you _feel_ sick.

 _‘Fat is unhealthy._ ’ Her voice rang so clear and loud, all you could do was whimper.

“Fat is unhealthy.” You repeated after her, your throat closing up and tears brimming your eyes.

You couldn’t help it; this was something you always admired her for. She was always so _skinny_ , so perfect and ethereal, that her saying things like this, it didn’t make you want disobey her.

It made you believe it was the truth.

That being fat was bad. And if you were fat…

That was a thought you couldn’t tolerate.

You stepped off the scale and sat on floor, curling up into a ball and crying.

Your stomach hurt, your chest hurt, your legs still ached from the scratches you made.

Your entire life was pain, and it just felt… eternal.

Would this pain ever actually leave?

You were feeling so good lately, you had made up with Nevaeh a little bit, you had been getting closer to the Red Hood, you had made money on your paintings, so why did you still have to be unhappy?

You gasped as you struggled to breathe again, and her voice came back angry again.

_‘Don’t panic.’_

Why not? Everything in life was hell, wasn’t it?

**_‘Stop panicking.’_ **

You took a deep breath and tried to hold it, listening to her.

You always wanted to spite her, to be angry at her, but you _missed_ her. And you wanted to control. She had that.

So why shouldn’t you listen to her?

Because you didn’t eat yesterday, or the day before that.

The last time you ate was Friday, when Nevaeh came over and you had a bit of fruit from the platter she made.

It was Tuesday now.

_She wanted to kill you._

You gasped a sob and started to cry again, hating the truth and the memories that came with it.

_She wanted to kill you. She wanted to kill you. She wanted to-_

“STOP!” You screamed at the empty bathroom, desperate to quiet your thoughts and memories, trying desperately not to panic.

But it was too late, the panic was set in, your chest was tight, and the air was too hot and thick for you to possibly deal with.

Your tears were unstoppable, the memory was there, and you just couldn’t let the thought go.

You were just too _sad_.

Still grieving and missing a person who only wanted to hurt you, still grieving and missing a person who died 3 years ago.

Your heart was still so battered.

You couldn’t take this, this pain and suffering that only ever seemed to haunt you.

In your every waking moment you were haunted by life and its choices, and you were but a fragile being, who cried over losing a pen.

Losing a person was like sentencing you to death.

And you were dying.

*

You sat on your kitchen dining table swinging your legs back and forth as you merrily munched on your jam on toast.

You didn’t feel as sick as you did earlier, which was a good thing, because she wanted you to be sick. She wanted you to be unhealthy and dying.

The last time she wanted you dead you fought back and won.

And you wouldn’t stop fighting.

Also, the fear of collapsing and going to hospital, _leaving the house_ , was more terrifying than getting fat.

Okay, so, maybe you weren’t actually eating for the right reasons, and it was almost ironic how one mental illness over powered the other and actually wanted you to live where as the other wanted you to die, but you were eating!

That’s all that really probably mattered in Neveah’s mind, were she to know about your struggle.

And the days in between were a lot less calm than you were hoping they would be, but hey, life wasn’t all roses.

After you finished your toast, you turned your phone back on to text Neveah and see how she was doing, and was pleasantly surprised when you saw she had done it first.

You told her you were okay and that you just ate some toast even though you wanted to kill yourself, and happily awaited her praise.

And boy did praise come. Just like you were hoping, Neveah spammed your phone with love and support and encouragement to keep going and to keep living.

Strangely, you wondered if the Red Hood would be this proud of you if you were to tell him of your eating disorder and overcoming it a little at a time.

This was… weird.

Eh, it was probably from where you bonded, and you just missed making conversation. He was a really good guy, and interesting too.

Who would have thought that he was a _thespian_? You smiled when you remembered how proud and defensive he got about it. It was funny and adorable.

Sighing, you jumped off your table and flicked the kettle on, fancying tea for a change.

But standing in the kitchen, your eyes couldn’t help but drift to the burner phone and memory stick left on the table next to your laptop.

You had yet to plug it in and look at the new notes Oracle had given you, but you didn’t really want to. All you really wanted to do was to call the vigilante.

Which was ridiculous since you were certain that you could only call him in emergencies. And it was a burner, you could only call once, so it would be wasting his money if you had to make him buy a new one just because you wanted to check up on him.

Which was also ridiculous because you were sure he was fine. He was a big guy; he could handle himself perfectly fine.

So why did you feel this persistent need to talk to him?

You didn’t feel this need with Nevaeh.

Then again, you had known Nevaeh for almost your entire life, so you were comfortable with her. This newfound friendship with the Red Hood was exactly that, new.

You just missed your friend.

The kettle flicking off broke you out of thoughts, and you turned around to make some chamomile tea, with a few drops of honey.

After your panic attack earlier, your throat was sore and desperately needed soothing.

And you were stressed beyond reason, so your sixth sense was feeling foggy and a little blocked, so you made a mental note to burn some incense later and meditate.

Sighing as you sipped your tea, soaking up the warmth, your mind drifted back to the Red Hood.

You kinda wanted to draw him again.

It was a weird urge, but you had drawn Neveah before, so you thought nothing of it. You walked into your living room, tea in hand, you picked up the little sketch book you had drawn him in before, off the book shelf.

This would keep you preoccupied for a good few hours.

*

_It was cold._

_No, it was freezing._

_The itchy coat you wore did nothing to keep you warm, and instead just soaked up the heavy rain._

_Lighting cracked across the sky, and illuminated the dark driveway in front of you._

_At the end of the drive way was a house, small and cosy, with a light on in the living room._

_Thunder roared across Gotham, like the heavens themselves were screaming._

_The curtains were wide open, revealing a man through the window, relaxed and comfortable in his chair, drinking a beer._

_No, it wasn’t a man. It was a **pig**._

_And he was going to get what was coming for him._

_The pig stood from his chair, his beer can empty and in a pile with the other empty cans, needing a new drink._

_But he wouldn’t get one._

_You walked with heavy steps to the front door, and started knocking aggressively._

_When the pig opened the door, you pushed him down, grabbed his head, and smashed it against the floor._

_He was out._

_You had no fear of the neighbours or anybody else in the house being scared of the racket, as the pig lived alone, and the neighbours were out._

_You had watched them leave._

_You picked up the pig bridal style, and carried him to your van, where you laid him gently in the back._

_You wanted him to die, but the only suffering he would experience, would be by your hand._

_You tied his hands and feet in rope, and gagged him, so that in case he ever woke, he wouldn’t be able to get away._

_You closed the rusted doors of your van, and had to push when it struggled. When it finally closed, it was with a squeak._

_Lightning flashed across the sky again, and this time the whole street lit up, but all it showed was how empty it was, and how much you were going to get away with this._

_Walking around to the driver’s side, you opened the door and climbed into the seat, briefly catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror._

_But you didn’t care to stare at yourself, you cared about killing a pig, so you turned the ignition and pressed your heavy dirty boot to the pedal, and drove off._

_The thunder covered the sound of the exhaust backfiring._

_You stopped driving when you reached a warehouse. It was broken down and grungy, with broken windows and graffiti paint covering a lot of it. But it was large, and the perfect place to call home._

_You got out of the driver’s seat and opened the massive sliding door in front of your van. Once opened, you hopped back into the seat and drove into the warehouse._

_The ware house was filled with old, rusted shipping containers. One of which was filled with tarp, for the **liars**. _

_The one next to it was filled with supplies. The ones you needed to send a message, to show the world what you were doing was a **good** thing._

_A shipping container, all the way at the back, was where your study was. Where your plans were._

_It was at the back, close to the back door, in case you ever needed to get away and fast._

_Once you got out of the van, you closed the sliding door behind you, and then opened the back-van doors, to get the pig out._

_The stupid thing was still out, which only furthered your hatred for him._

_Lazy, fat, lying, greedy **pig**._

_You picked him up again and carried him to the orange shipping container, the one with the tarp._

_You opened the doors, threw him in, and closed them behind him, leaving him with nothing but the darkness._

_You were starting to feel giddy._

_Taking a deep breath to keep your cool, you walked over to your study, to grab the plans and sketches you had made._

_If your piece was going to be perfect, you would need them._

_When you got to your study, however, you checked the time, and it read 10:23. You had gotten back earlier than expected._

_Hmm._

_Oh well. It was best to not be too predictable anyway, otherwise you would be caught._

_Looking over the sketches, you saw what had to be done, and rolled them up to bring them with you to your supply container._

_When approaching your container, however, it appeared that the pig had awoken, and was making all sorts of ugly pleading noises._

_You couldn’t but smile at the excitement that filled you._

_Opening the red containers doors, the one with the supplies, you walked in and searched for a scalpel, a butcher’s knife, and bone saw. You would need them if you were to complete your vision._

_After collecting your items, you shed your hat, coat and the jacket you had underneath, and instead replaced them with an apron._

_Unlike your previous piece, this one would have to be killed here, instead of steadily bleeding out. So, you had to keep your not so clean clothes, clean. At least of blood._

_The thunder was still howling outside, life and the universe crying for you to stop, but it wasn’t important to you to care what the universe thought or wanted._

_You wanted to kill a pig._

_So, you rolled the sleeves of your smelly and damp button shirt, and you were ready to make your piece._

_Picking up your art tools, you carried them to the container next door._

_When you opened the doors, the pig squealed and cried for mercy._

_You would give him none._

_When the pig stopped squealing, and his body was finished being moulded to your ideas, you finally untied him, stripped him, and put him in a white cotton tunic._

_To remind everyone, he wasn’t always bad._

_But he needed purging for his sins._

_You cut a hole in the tunic over the area you sculpted, so you could place the bouquet like you visioned._

_but you weren’t done, you let him lay in your container for a while, so his tunic could soak up the blood, so people could see his corruption of purity._

_Whilst he laid in his blood, you tended to your bouquets of flowers, and measured and cut rope for the composition of your piece._

_You were done around half 12, so you picked up your pig, placed him in the back, and put your box of bouquets and supplies in the back as well._

_You then put your hat, jacket and coat back on, and headed to your location._

_It had stopped raining when you arrived, which was good, because the rain would have most likely ruined your piece._

_You were at the end of a cul-de-sac. A court. A dead-end road. It didn’t matter._

_All that mattered was that it was called Brooks court, and it had a beautiful small growing oak tree at the end of it._

_It was new, but strong. Just big enough to climb._

_Which was perfect, because its where you were hanging your pig._

_You tied the longest and thickest piece of rope in the van around his neck, in a hangman’s noose, and tied him to the biggest branch there was. He was a few feet of the ground, but still visible._

_He thought he was above everybody, the stupid pig._

_Now, he physically was, but he had no life to enjoy it._

_After you finished with that, you grabbed the head set you had made for him. It was a plastic ring, with two bouquets attached on either side._

_When you placed it on his head, he looked he had ass ears. But you also made it so that the ring would have to go over his nose, and then push it up to stay in place, essentially making him look like the pig he was._

_After that, you got out the main bouquet, that explained why he deserved to die._

_It was filled with white heather, almond branches and yellow carnations._

_You placed it in the gaping hole you made in his chest, and spread them so that it looked as if they were growing out of his core._

_Out of his soul._

_You started placing buttercup flowers and petals in his mouth, so that people would understand exactly why he committed his sin. _

_You placed 6 more bouquets of thyme, but you hung them next to him, 3 on each side and of varying heights, so as to give more feeling to your piece._

_But as you stepped back and looked at the pig, hanging for his crimes, you felt like it was missing something._

_He was a dirty bastard pig, sinful of ignoring his duty and betraying the trust of his city, guilty for looking the other way when…_

_He was looking the other way._

_Taking the switch blade out of your massive coat pockets, you walked up to the corpse, and gouged out his eyes._

_He pretended to be blind to the evils and innocents of this city, and he did nothing to help it._

_So, you would help it, and you would show the world what blind really meant._

_Now, your art piece, was complete._

You woke with a gasp, sweat clinging to every inch of your body, and your head swimming with fear and pain.

You tried to slow your breathing and scrunched your eyes, so that you could get a hold of the tears that threated to spill.

You could cry _after_ you finished painting.

Stumbling out of bed, you rushed to your easel and pushed the previous painting off of it, replacing it with a rather high but slim canvas. You grabbed your paints, a jar of water, and began to paint.

It was going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So last weekend I was heavily inspired and motivated and ended up writing a hell of a lot, including this chapter, but I'm not sure how long this motivation will last so please don't expect to much from me :) here's a link to my Tumblr where I update about timing and situations and will be happy to ask any questions people have for me about my story, except spoilers :) https://panicandprocrastinatestories.tumblr.com/ I hope you enjoyed x


	9. Pipe Dreams

You called him immediately after you finished your newest monstrosity.

You were crumpled up on the floor, your back against the far wall and your cheeks stained with tears.

You had worked on it the whole day, from yesterday night to then, 11 pm. A whole 24 hours.

Your chest felt so _heavy_ , and your eyes were so _tired_ , but the thought of closing them so soon after a nightmare like that…

You would rather gouge your eyes out than see what you saw again.

“Hello?” The vigilantes mechanical voice called out from the window, echoing through out your dark apartment.

You had turned the lights off so you wouldn’t have to see the painting again.

“In here.” You croaked; your throat was raw from another panic attack that you had earlier.

You heard him land in your apartment through the window, and then his heavy footsteps coming closer.

When he stood next to you, he flicked on the light switch above you, and stared in horrific confusion.

Okay, so, maybe you also turned the lights off because you didn’t want him to see the state you were in.

You had vomit on your clothes, a lot of it. You had been trying to hold back from throwing up and had been trying to keep painting, but the urge was too powerful and you ended up not making it to your toilet.

Your eyes were bloodshot, and the bags underneath were heavy and dark. Your nose was red and still running, and your lips were broken and split from where you had been biting them in anxiety.

And you were still crying. That fact over powered all the others as the vigilante crouched to steadily stroke your cheeks and wipe away the newest falling tears.

You didn’t flinch away from his touch this time.

He didn’t ask what happened, and instead just stood up to get you some fresh clothes, and a glass of water.

When he held the glass of water out in front of you, you gladly took it and chugged it, taking a deep breath after.

He held your hands and steadily helped to pull you up, and when you struggled to hold your own weight, the Red Hood put his arm around your waist and supported you as you stumbled to the bathroom.

He sat you down on the edge of the bathtub, as the toilet was covered in bile.

It made you want to throw up again.

But instead, you watched as the vigilante took out some cleaning supplies from under the tub, and began to wipe away the sick.

If you had any energy, you would have blushed from all his care, but you didn’t, so you just settled for a half dead/half shocked look instead.

After he finished cleaning, he sat you on the toilet, and left you to get changed.

Or at least he tried to, but you didn’t let him.

You don’t know why you reached out, maybe because you were being smart and knew you didn’t have the energy to do it yourself, or maybe because you desperately didn’t want to be alone right then.

Either way, you didn’t let him leave, and he stayed to help.

It was awful and humiliating. Nobody had ever seen you in that amount of undress before, and all you could think was how ugly you must look to him.

But he didn’t say a word.

Not about the uncovered legs with thousands of overlapping scars.

Not about the extremely visible ribs and bones you had.

Not about how pale and sick you very clearly were.

He didn’t say anything, and instead, just _helped_.

You wanted to start crying again.

When you were done getting dressed, he picked up a cloth from the side of the sink, wet it with cold water, and cleaned your face. Firmly, but with care.

You felt a bit better.

But you didn’t feel as fresh as you wanted to, so using what little energy you had, you stood up to get your tooth brush. You were still shaky, but the Red Hood held you the entire time, and by the end of it, you felt… okay.

Your mouth was clean, your face was clean, and you were wearing fresh clothes. It felt, nice.

He wordlessly helped you out of your bathroom, and sat you in the kitchen at the dining table. You crossed your arms and laid your head down on the table feeling so utterly _drained_.

But you felt cared for. And it was good.

The vigilante was doing something in your kitchen, looking for something, opening cupboards and draws, and when he found it you could hear the sound of jam jar lid popping off.

He was… making you food.

Did you want to eat?

You still felt partially sick, but you were so _drained_ , so shaky. You needed to eat something, but was she going to get mad?

She didn’t tend to speak when other people were around.

Maybe… you could eat? Just this once?

Besides, if he was making it _for_ you, then it would be rude to deny it.

Yeah, you would eat.

The vigilante placed the plate in front of you, and you looked up to see he had made a jam sandwich, and filled the glass of water back up.

You ate slowly as he sat down and watched, carefully making sure you were going to be okay.

It was good, the sandwich. Your sandwiches always tasted like arse. You weren’t sure how you could fuck up a sandwich, but you always did.

He didn’t, and he was still watching. But when you got to the second half, you couldn’t eat anymore, as your stomach was already feeling full.

You weren’t used to this much food, and you didn’t want to insult him, so you put the second half down in favour of more water.

When you finished, you both sat in complete silence, just existing in each other’s company. What could you say anyway? You didn’t really have the energy for words.

It felt… weird. You weren’t used to this. All this care and comfort. Neveah didn’t do shit like this. Mainly because you would never let her see you like this, but still.

Why did he care so damn much?

“You’re not going to eat the rest?” He asked gently, finally filling the dead silence.

“Feel sick.” Was all you said.

A beat of silence, then:

“Was the vision that bad?”

You weren’t sure how to answer that. It was, kinda. It was an awful vision, but there were other factors that made you feel this way, yesterday’s incident for one.

Sighing, you put your head in your hands and made a whimper like noise, not really having any energy to explain.

You heard him sigh as well, and suddenly felt really bad that he put all this effort into you and you couldn’t even explain something so simple.

“It was clearer.” You began, hating how much your throat ached and how croaky it sounded. “It was more vibrant. Like someone turned the saturation and brightness up. I have a headache from it.”

He hummed as he nodded his head, still watching you like a hawk.

“Have you taken anything? Paracetamol? Ibuprofen?”

“No, but I have paracetamol in the corner cupboard.” You explained, hoping he would get it for you. He did, as well as refill your glass so you didn’t need to take the tablet dry.

Once you took it you put your head in your arms and waited for it to kick in.

“Do you know why your vision was clearer?” He asked whilst wrapping up your sandwich to put it away in the fridge.

“I meditated yesterday. Burned some incense. Cleared out my psychic filter, if you will.”

He hummed and nodded along, understanding.

“Your throat sounds bad, how many panic attacks have you had?” He asked as gently as he could, whilst walking around to your side of the table and leaning on it.

“I’ve only had one today, but I had a really bad one yesterday.” You explained, turning your head in your arms so you could see him better.

“You had the vision yesterday?”

“Yesterday night. I had the panic attack in the morning.” You explained begrudgingly, not sure how to tell him about the goddamn stupid voice in your head that sometimes told you to breathe, and sometimes told you to starve.

“What caused the panic attack yesterday?” He questioned, still trying to be ever so gentle. It made you warm again.

“Stuff… Family issues. Mental issues. Bad combo.”

He nodded his head as he listened, only trying to help.

Your head was getting a bit better, it wasn’t as dizzy, and you had some energy again.

He really was good friend.

He patted your head gently before walking into the living room to actually take a look at the painting, and your face flushed with warmth.

You tried to stand up to follow him, and stumbled a bit, but managed okay. You really didn’t want to look at the painting, but you also didn’t want to leave his side, so you walked up to him and rested your head on his arm.

You still didn’t have the right amount of energy to do this, but you figured you would be okay if you were with him.

“It’s still wet.” You chastised when he tried to touch it.

“Sorry.”

You didn’t dare to open your eyes, and instead just revelled in the comfort of him letting you lean on him.

But you could tell that the Red Hood was affected by the painting, and was frowning, deep in thought of what to do.

You decided you would comfort him too.

“Don’t worry, we have a couple days to save the guy.”

“You know when it’s going to happen?” He asked, a little shock coming off of him.

“Not exactly, it just feels like it’s going to be in few days. Maybe more? We don’t have that long, but we have long enough.” You said, standing up straight, even though all you really wanted to do was bury yourself further into his arms.

“Hmm. That doesn’t give us a lot to work with, but we have the face of the next victim, so we can run facial recognition, find him, and protect him.”

“Yep. Or, you know, I could just tell you the street the victim lives on.” You smiled tiredly but smugly at the vigilante as he looked at you with surprise.

“You know where the victim lives?” He asked as you walked around him to sit on the sofa, your legs already getting tired from standing.

“I know a lot now. Remember, the vision was clearer, longer. My first vision was short and vague, snippets of what happened, mostly of the murderer stabbing her to the pavement. This vision detailed all the way back to when he gets taken.” You explained.

“So, you know… everything?” the Red Hood asked, staring at you with mild awe.

“Mm, I don’t know the guy’s name.” You pondered. “The murderer kept thinking of him as a pig, so I think it’s a cop. And he kept thinking about how greedy he was? That he turned a ‘blind eye’?” You explained with air quotes, and mild curiosity.

The vigilante hummed as he turned back to the painting in thought.

“He has given the guy a pig nose, so you’re probably right. And most of the cops are corrupt and bought easily, so he could have been bribed to look the other way.” The Vigilante theorised, still staring at the painting.

“That would explain his gouged-out eyes and leaving them on the floor.” You said, picking up a pillow and hugging it your chest.

“Is there anything else?” The Red Hood asked, turning back to you.

You thought about it for a bit, struggling to remember. After 24 hours the vision tended to get fuzzy and wasn’t that helpful.

But then you did remember something.

“Yeah, actually. He went to a… warehouse? It was broken down, old, abandoned. I… can’t remember where, car rides are always so fuzzy in dreams, but… it wasn’t empty. It had, uh, boxes? Big, massive, metal boxes! Yeah!” You exclaimed, looking up at the vigilante with pride.

“A warehouse, huh? And it was abandoned?” He inquired

You nodded you head yes.

“Good, alright, that really helps. Thanks.” He said, a proud smile of his own directed at you.

You smiled back at him, energy and warmth starting to consume you.

However, your throat was still sore, so you got up and walked into to the kitchen to make some tea.

You suddenly had this strange, overwhelming urge to get better.

Deciding not to look a gift horse in the mouth, you didn’t think about it and just continued preparing your tea. You were going to ask the vigilante if he wanted one, but when you turned around you saw he was holding his hand up to his helmet, and sounded as if he was talking to somebody.

Oh well. He didn’t like taking off his helmet anyway.

When you finished making your tea, peppermint for your throat this time, you grabbed your laptop and the USB before walking over to the living room and sitting on the sofa.

It was finally time to read through those notes that Oracle had made, and it was time to update them.

The Red Hood was apparently done talking to whoever he was talking to, and was currently taking pictures of your work. It seemed you weren’t the only one who wanted to break down the message.

The notes Oracle had made where pretty detailed, had lots of evidence and were very concrete, so you were happy to read through them, but you desperately wanted to get on with breaking down this new message that the murderer had put on display.

You already knew what thyme meant, so you opened a new note on your laptop, and wrote in that the second murder would take place at 2 in the morning.

The third murder, if the bad guy actually managed to get away, would be placed at 6? It seemed pretty early for the murderer to place it, whether it was the morning or the afternoon, too many people would be out.

But who could know what goes on in a psychopath’s mind, he was obviously doing it for attention, so maybe he was challenging himself?

You made a new bullet point, and wrote about how you thought that the victim could be a cop. You wrote about the thoughts and feelings of the murderer, constantly calling him a pig and making him look like one, etcetera, etcetera.

And you worked your way down the body, explaining and theorising each wound and flower, like why the murderer gouged out the eyes, because of how he turned a blind eye.

Turns.

He turns a blind eye.

He wasn’t dead yet.

In the painting, he had buttercups in his mouth, steadily falling out. Was he eating buttercups? According to Wikipedia, buttercups meant riches.

He was eating the rich?

That couldn’t be right.

That expression was used to show hatred for the upper-class, and to support communism. This guy was a capitalist born and bred.

But then again…

You didn’t know what he turned a blind eye for, what he ignored. Maybe… maybe the rich hurt somebody? But he just took their money instead of doing anything to help people?

Stuffing his belly and getting greedy like the murderer thought he was.

No, the murderer _knew_. The murderer stalked his victims, so he was sure of what he was doing.

And the murderer knew that he was eating the rich. He was eating out of their hands so they could keep getting away with whatever the hell they wanted to.

Yes, it was right, you knew it. So, you wrote it down.

You moved down the body, and found your fingers frozen.

This was the part that made you throw up so much earlier.

_The gaping hole in his chest._

You took a deep breath, and strained against your anxiety to keep your cool, so you could crack the message.

You made a bullet point with shaky fingers, typing how _the gaping hole in his chest_ was supposed to show the message came from his soul.

It was difficult, trying to write and ignore all the pain and suffering you remembered the victim went through. Remembering the gruesome and gory details of the murderer slicing him open and cutting and digging into his chest, _all the way through…_

You took another deep breath as you look up to the ceiling, trying to restrain the tears.

You had already had a mental break down, you wouldn’t have another.

No, you would focus on the message.

And the message was white heather, almond branches, and yellow carnations.

White heather meant protection, almonds meant promise, and yellow carnations meant disappointment.

But it was supposed to be backwards. You could feel it, as you feel everything.

He disappointed a promise to protect, because he was a cop taking bribes from the rich. Bribes for what? You didn’t know. But you had a clearer idea of who the victim was.

You looked up when you heard the vigilante talking again, but it still wasn’t to you. You don’t know why you felt disappointed by that.

When the Red Hood stopped talking to whoever was on the other end of his coms, he turned to you, walked over and sat next you.

He was looking over your notes, and you could feel the surprise coming off of him.

“You already cracked the message?” He asked with awe.

“It’s really not that difficult. The murderer uses Wikipedia to find out the meanings, all you gotta do is find out what the flowers are and then link their meanings.” You explained, shrugging your shoulders.

“How would I know that the murderer uses Wikipedia?”

Oh.

Yeah.

He wouldn’t.

“Sorry, I guess that’s a psychic thing huh?” You stated bashfully. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference between your psychic abilities and your natural senses.

“Uhuh. So, what do you have, Sweetheart? Oracle wants the details.”

So that’s who he was talking to. Figured, he hadn’t mentioned anyone else anyway.

“Uh, well I’ve gotten a lot. There’s not as many details as the last murder, he made this one pretty quick and simple. But it was basically just stating what we already guessed. That he broke his oath to serve and protect for his own selfish gain.”

He hummed and nodded his head understanding. “Send it to her, she’ll want to look over it herself.”

“Um okay, how do I do that?” You asked, staring at your screen with confusion. He said there was link, but you couldn’t see anything…

“Here.” He took the laptop out of your hands and started typing, pressing a bunch of keys.

Oh no, it was code and programming, wasn’t it?

You sucked at that.

You were starting to miss your paper case files.

“There you go, all you gotta to do is insert the file and press enter and she should get it.” He said, handing the laptop back to you, the code and stuff still on the screen.

“Um, how am I supposed to get into this again? Like isn’t there a simple way to just, email her or something?” You asked, still staring at the screen with horrific confusion.

You _hated_ computers.

“What do you mean, it is simple.”

You gave him a look that said ‘really?’

“Okay, give it back, I’ll make it easier.”

He took the laptop back and you saw him type more code, enter it, and then handed it back to you when it disappeared.

“Now if you want to talk to her, all you gotta do is type Oracle_1, with a capital O, Okay? It should immediately come up with a chat.”

You sighed in relief, that being ten times easier than writing millions of codes.

“Thanks, I kinda suck at computers.” You chuckled with a blush, feeling a little bit embarrassed.

“Yeah, I can tell.” He grinned at you while you stared at him with shock. The cheeky bastard!

You playfully pushed him with your shoulder in return, but he only grinned harder. The little bitch.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t know you… were good at computers. You give off idiot vibes.” You retorted, not your best comeback, but it felt good enough.

“I do not!” He exclaimed in shock, pushing back with his shoulder, harder.

“Sure you do, that big old helmet echoes, makes your head sound empty.” You said with a cheeky grin, starting to enjoy riling him up.

“Ah!” He mock-gasped and held his hand over his heart, dramatically acting like you had actually wounded him. Figured, he was a _thespian_ after all.

“I’m _not_ an idiot.” He said seriously, making sure you knew that he was actually smart.

“I know.” You said, turning back to the computer. “But you look like one.” You gave him a cheeky smirk and side eye, and exclaimed when he pushed you off the sofa.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to push you that hard Doll, I only meant to nudge you.” He shouted with worry, staring at you on the floor as you gave him a death glare.

“I don’t weigh anything! A nudge could throw me into outer space!” You shouted back, throwing a pillow at him.

The little bitch was gonna kill you one day.

But you couldn’t complain though, he was fun to be around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that weekend where I was possessed by a writing god? Yeah, this is another chapter that I made during that time. Unfortunately I haven't finished writing chapter 10 yet as it isn't exactly exciting for me and my stupid ass ADHD brain, so its taking a while, but thanks for bearing with me! I will hopefully have it finished this week because I am on holiday break from college, but making no promises because again, ADHD would rather I die than do anything productive lol. Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy! xx


	10. Weak Defence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no real warnings need for this chapter, but here's a little guide to help you understand things:  
> A dash (-) and italics means text.  
> An apostrophe (') and italics means hallucinations.
> 
> Also: https://panicandprocrastinatestories.tumblr.com/ - a link to my Tumblr where I also post chapters and updates on my story, you can also ask me questions there, except for spoilers :p

The Red Hood left at 1 in the morning, leaving you time to actually get some sleep.

You didn’t plan it, you actually though you wouldn’t be able to sleep for a good few days, but apparently the vigilantes tender care made you feel a lot better, and safer, than you had thought possible.

You ended up sleeping well into the late morning, only waking up when the construction company finally got to work on the building next door.

Thankfully it wasn’t on your side of the building, but that didn’t make it any quieter.

You weren’t really sure what to do with yourself when you woke up.

You had cleaned the apartment a bit before bed, so you didn’t need to do any more.

The painting was probably dry, but it was fine sitting on the easel facing the wall, no need for it to be put away.

And you were tired of art, not fancying any more paints or sketches after your hectic night.

To be honest, you really just wanted to see the vigilante again.

He was so good to you last night, that just the thought made your face warm.

_And you weren’t afraid to touch him anymore._

Well, you were still afraid of any type of vulnerability with another person, and touch was a big step in showing you trusted someone, but you had overcome it.

Mainly because if you didn’t let him touch you, you would have still been a crusty vomit covered trash bag, but still.

You desperately needed him, and you trusted him.

And he didn’t break it.

_He took care of you._

You had to stop thinking to squeal in your pillow.

Your face was boiling, as red as a traffic light, and your heart doing all sorts of funny little somersaults.

You hadn’t had this kind of care since you were a baby.

Calming down, you sighed and ran your hands down your face, tired from having emotions.

You finally got up from your bed to tread towards the bathroom, needing to pee and clean up a bit.

When you were done, feeling much fresher, you padded over to your kitchen to get some coffee.

After turning on the coffee machine, you opened your fridge to get out the other half of your jam sandwich.

You actually wanted to eat, which surprised you, but you didn’t want to think about it too much, otherwise her voice would pop up and remind you of the piece of shit you were.

When you finished munching on your sandwich, the coffee machine beeped, so you grabbed the pot and poured yourself some.

You were actually feeling great today.

As you sipped your coffee in the kitchen, the ping of your phone getting a message redirected your attention.

You looked at the clock on your wall, and saw the time was 11:58.

It was Thursday, so Nevaeh had work, but it was almost lunch time, so she was probably checking up on you.

Sighing, you trudged to your bedroom to look at her message.

\- _Hey girl x how you doing?_ –

The message glared at you on the screen, and you had this growing dread in your stomach.

After the last face to face conversation you and Nevaeh had, things had been, _iffy_ , between the two of you.

You still messaged, was happy to see she texted you, still cared about you.

But you hadn’t worked up the confidence to call her.

How could you?

She betrayed you, sold you out, broke your trust.

Hearing her voice was a heavy reminder of the last time you talked, and the things she did.

It was easier for her. She got to come clean.

She got to tell you what she did, she got to feel bad about it and say sorry.

She got to move on.

But you couldn’t.

Because all it did was make the voice in your head seem more truthful. Made the anxieties and worries you had seem more realistic.

Because what you were always scared of happening, happened.

\- _I’m good x wbu?_ \- You wrote back, sitting on the edge of your bed griping your coffee mug tightly.

\- _I’m good, at work at the moment, but we’ve gotten a new colleague who’s taking my shift after lunch, you free then? X -_

Oh no.

She wanted to come over.

You sipped your coffee in thought as you bounced your leg, worry creeping up your spine.

What could you say? No? You had never told her she wasn’t welcome, doing so now would show that something was very, very wrong.

And you couldn’t very well ignore her or she would get worried and come over anyway.

But as you sat there, sipping your coffee, you thought of how she only wanted to help.

Obviously, what she did was a mistake, she didn’t mean to hurt you. She just wanted to make sure that no harm came to anyone else as well.

She put the means of the many over the means of the few.

Except you were her _best friend_. As cruel as it sounded, you felt that no matter the amount of the people who were in harm’s way shouldn’t have mattered.

All that should have mattered was you and her, as it always used to.

But thinking about it like that, made you think that maybe she was right.

It was always you and her, and you never got anywhere.

It made things ten times worse, and kept you that way.

Sighing, you walked back into the kitchen to put your mug into the sink, phone still in hand and the message still glaring.

That old life, that old you, were gone.

You still woke up and cried when the visions were particularly gory, you were still too scared to walk out the front door in case history repeated itself.

But life still happened.

A vigilante fell through your window and ended up showing you the beauty of helping people.

It didn’t matter how much you hid in your house, terrified of the outside world, you couldn’t escape change.

You were involved in a case to stop a psychopath with a plant fetish, and it felt _good_ to do something.

You understood why she did it, because not doing anything felt like shit.

You tapped the kitchen counter as you stared at your phone, the little line still blinking, waiting for you to type a reply.

She was right to do what she did, and you couldn’t be angry at her forever.

Sighing, you typed out - _Yeah, I’m always free, come over whenever x_ -

*

She came over at one, and you had done a little more cleaning to pass the time. Mainly the bathroom since it still smelled a lot like vomit.

You were sitting at the kitchen table when she finally unlocked the front door and came in.

“Hey babe, how you doing?” She asked as she sat some groceries down on the table.

“Ah, you know how it is, same old same old. What about you?” You answered, putting your phone down and watching as she put away the fresh fruit she bought you.

“I’m great actually! I managed to get that raise that I needed. With the new colleague we have it makes the work load ten times easier, so my boss was in happy enough mood to give it to me.”

You hummed as you listened, watching her and focusing on her aura.

You didn’t want to be angry anymore, but you couldn’t help being paranoid. Scanning her aura was good way to tell if she had made another mistake.

But she hadn’t. Her vibes were completely fine, and everything was going great with her.

You were just being an arsehole.

“That’s good.” You said, nodding your head. “Does that mean you will have more free time now?”

“Yep. More money and less work.” You both chuckled at that. “Have you eaten?” She asked, turning around and leaning on the counter once she was done.

“Uh, yeah, actually. I ate half a jam sandwich when I woke up.”

“Really? What happened to the other half?” She asked jokingly.

“I ate it yesterday.” You answered, jiggling your leg.

“Oh sweet.” She replied, sitting at the table, directly across from you. “You’ve been eating a lot better lately, any reason why?”

“I just keep getting hungry.” You said, not sure if you were lying or not. It wasn’t like you could say the vigilante forced you to eat, because he didn’t, but if he didn’t make you anything you probably would have just let yourself starve.

“Well, it’s good that you’re not ignoring your needs. How’s everything else been?”

You sighed as you leaned back in your chair, staring at the ceiling.

How could you tell her? _Could_ you even tell her? She had kept your secret for so long, but ultimately told it.

Including her in the investigation, or even just letting her know of everything that had been going on, wasn’t okay.

Telling her about the Red Hood, especially when she still thought that he was the murderer, wasn’t going to go down well.

Lying was the only option.

“Things have been… up and down. Mostly down. I had another vision.”

“Oh. I see.” She said, staring at you, trying to figure out how messed up it made you feel.

If the vigilante hadn’t been there to clean you up and take care of you, then you probably would have been worse off, but he was.

So, because of your calm composure, she was assuming that it was okay.

It wasn’t, but she went ahead of with her questions anyway.

“How many victims are in it? Do you know who they are?”

You sighed, contemplating if you should tell her what you knew. She wasn’t going to get involved, you wouldn’t let her. But she was going to be persistent in getting her answers so… half-truths.

“There’s only one victim, I don’t know his name. I don’t know who the murderer is either, but he’s still covering the victims in plants. Its in the morning again, and on a tree.” You explained, not needing her to ask the rest of the questions as it was routine now.

You heard her hum, and then she got up to look at the painting.

“No!” You shouted and stood in her way, hating the surprised look on her face.

“It’s not pretty. You don’t want to see it.” You explained quickly, looking at her shoulder, not able to hold eye contact.

A couple seconds of silence passed, and you could feel her thinking.

“If it’s that bad then we should do something.” She said, causing you to look up and meet her eyes.

You didn’t like the look in them.

It was determination.

She was still so ready to help people.

And you hated that you couldn’t let her.

“No.”

You saw the determination waver a bit, and shock creeped in for a second.

She wasn’t expecting this.

She wasn’t expecting you to be stubborn about it.

She was expecting you to be scared, fragile, _weak_.

Not filled with burning determination that matched her own.

“(Y/n), this is people’s lives at stake. You can’t just say no to helping them!”

“I know.” You said weakly.

“So, let’s do something!” She was getting aggravated now, but you couldn’t back down. You had to find a way to get through to her.

“I can’t Nevaeh. You know I can’t.”

“Because you’re scared? I know you are, but how scared do you think those victims are when they’re getting taken?”

Shit, she made a good point.

But you were _already_ helping people.

How could you say no to that, without either sounding like an arsehole or explaining the investigation you were wrapped up in?

And you couldn’t trust her with the investigation.

So, the only way out, was to be a dick.

“That’s their problem Nevaeh.” You said with clenched fists, hating the new role you had to play.

She stared at you in horror, appalled at the words that just left your mouth.

“You didn’t just say that. Tell me you didn’t just say that. Since when have you ever been so fucking selfish!” She was shouting now; furious you would even think that that was good reason to not help people.

“They’ve always managed fine on their own Nevaeh. I’ve painted mass murders and slaughter scenes before and Gotham has always been fine without me, we don’t need to get involved.” You shouted back, your chest tight and filled with fear.

This was awful.

You didn’t want to push her away.

But how else would you keep her from screwing everything up?

“That doesn’t mean it’s okay! How many people could you have saved if you had told someone about those paintings? How many people have died and been mourned because you didn’t say anything?!”

“I- I don’t know. A lot.” The words stumbled out; you were struggling to defend yourself now.

“Yeah, too many to count! Do you really think all those people who died, the people who lost them, are fine?!”

“No, but-”

“But nothing!” She screamed.

She was breathing heavily now, her face bright red and her fists clenched too. She was really mad.

And it was your fault.

She took a deep breath to calm herself and crossed her arms, still clearly pissed. “We can’t just not do anything (y/n). We’ve been doing that for too long, and lots of people have gotten hurt because of it.”

You listened as she tried to convince you, completely unaware that it didn’t matter what she said, you still wouldn’t help her.

“I know you’re scared, but I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, you know that. I would defend you till my last breath (y/n). Please, let me help you, help people.” She was gentle now, her voice soft and convincing, and you wanted to help. You really did.

But you already were.

And she couldn’t get involved.

“I want to, Nevaeh. I really do. But- but I can’t. I’m sorry.”

You could feel her eyes on you, and you could feel the rising anger that was consuming her.

But she was also disappointed. And that hurt more.

“Don’t apologise to me (y/n). Apologise to the people who are going to die, and to the people who will miss them.”

And with that she turned to the kitchen to pick up her things, and left, slamming the door behind her.

*

You weren’t really sure what to with yourself after that.

You had been flitting around the whole apartment for the rest of the day, putting more paintings up for sale, reorganising bookshelves and window sills, scrolling through social media and cleaning everything again.

You didn’t need to, but it kept your mind preoccupied and kept you from spiralling.

And considering the past two days and nights were the worst moments you had experienced in a while; you couldn’t bear to have another one.

But as time moved on, you had found yourself running out of things to do, and eventually on the brink of spiralling.

Socialising was a good way to ignore panic, but you didn’t really have anyone to socialise with.

Because Nevaeh was mad at you, and didn’t really want to speak to you.

And you couldn’t call the vigilante, because you had used the burner phone, so you had to wait for him to get you a new one.

Sighing, you picked up your laptop from the coffee table and brought it to the kitchen dining table.

You were going to talk to Oracle.

You were nervous, as you got for every new person you talked to, but you weren’t really going to meet her.

It was over text, so it was easier.

You typed in the passphrase, Oracle_1, and a chat box came up just like the Red Hood said it would.

It was a small black box with green text, and you suddenly felt really scared. You always were when you were trying things you had never done before.

Swallowing your fear, you typed in - _Hello, am I talking to Oracle?_ -, before pressing enter with shaky fingers and sending it.

You cringed at how you awkward you sounded, but reasoned you couldn’t just type - What’s up bitch? It’s me ya psychic boi. -

Soon enough she replied and had written, - _Hello, this is Oracle. Is this (y/n) (l/n)?_ -

You stared at the screen in wonder. She actually replied. And it was her. And she knew your name?

 _\- Uh, yeah. How do you know my name?_ \- You wrote back in confusion, unsure how she could possibly know that.

You barely existed.

\- _I know everything. Are you okay?_ \- You snorted at that. She wished.

\- _I bet you don’t know the future._ -

 _\- Touché. But are you okay? Is there a reason you wanted to talk?_ \- She really wanted to know, didn’t she?

Sighing, you typed back - _Everything’s okay, just feeling a little shaky but its chill. I just wanted to check up on the case and see if you made any progress. -_

She took a little longer to reply, but when she did, she answered - _Yes, we’ve made progress. We found the next victim, and he’s being questioned about any activities that could make him a target, but he’s not being very cooperative._ -

You hummed at that, and was about to type back when another message popped up reading - _Why are you shaky? Have you eaten?_ -

And that made you feel warm.

Jesus you had to get your shit under control.

It was just a question.

About you.

And if you were okay.

From a random person that you only started talking to 5 seconds ago…

Ugh, were all vigilantes this kind? It made you feel too much.

Sighing, you wrote back - _I ate this morning, but I had a fight with my friend so I was feeling… sad, earlier._ -

\- _You had a fight? -_ She typed back instantly, clearly wanting you to expand on it.

\- _An argument. She thinks I’m an arsehole because I won’t help anyone or tell anyone about my abilities or visions._ -

\- _Hmm. I’m guessing she doesn’t know about us then?_ \- She questioned.

\- _No, I can’t trust her with this._ \- You hated admitting it. Admitting it made it real, and that made it worse.

\- _You can’t trust her?_ -

\- _She found the first body. She got scared and told the police about me, even though she promised that she would never tell anyone about my abilities._ \- You sighed as you pressed enter and awaited her reply.

Despite feeling like shit because you were focusing on the bad stuff, it did feel good to tell somebody about your problems.

\- _Did the police believe her?_ -

\- _No. They though she was one of those charlatans. It’s the standard reaction to stuff like this._ -

\- _Hmm, well at least the police won’t come knocking. And if they do, I’ll let you know. -_ You scoffed at that.

\- _With what? Your non-existent future vision? -_ You joked, having fun talking to her.

 _\- Haha, don’t you like to brag? I have sources in the precinct. They won’t come to you I promise. -_ You raised an eyebrow at that. Was that even legal?

You decided not to question it and typed back - _Thanks. I appreciate you looking out for me. –_

 _\- It’s alright. You’re a good source._ \- You smiled at that. It was a strange compliment, but it made you feel good anyway.

It felt good to be useful.

\- _So, back to the case, have they asked him about bribes? It was a part of the message in my vision._ \- You asked, wanting to divert away from your problems. Dwelling on them too long would make you upset.

\- _They have, it’s what started making him uncooperative. He’s feeling threated and exposed, I don’t think that he thought he was going to get caught. -_

You hummed as you contemplated that. He must have been a really stupid guy to think that, if a random murderer could pick up on his crimes, then how could his own precinct not?

You typed out your thoughts and sent them to her, not sure what else to say.

When she didn’t reply instantly, you sighed and ended up typing out - _How’s Red Hood doing?_ -before you could think and sent it to her.

When you did you immediately regretted it.

God you sounded desperate. And rude.

It was so goddamn rude to ask about someone else when you were currently talking to somebody.

And you hadn’t even asked how she was doing!

‘ _Rude and inconsiderate!_ ’

You whimpered as her voice popped up again, this time shouting at you.

But it was short lived when Oracle replied and said – _He’s not here right now, he had some business to do, but he was fine earlier. I’ll let him know you asked for him. –_

You squeaked at the idea of it and quickly replied - _No! No, it’s okay, you don’t have to. I should have asked how you were doing, I’m sorry it was rude. How are you?_ – You prayed that that made things better as you sent it.

\- _It’s alright, I understand. Red did say that you have gotten close. And I’m okay._ –

You stared at the screen with some kind of emotion. You weren’t exactly sure what to call it.

Horror?

Excitement?

Panic?

All you could tell was that you were confused, and shocked.

_\- He said that? –_

\- _Yeah, he said that your important. –_

Important?

You continued to stare as your face got hotter and hotter the more the words sunk in.

\- _No. That can’t be right. I mean, sure he’s a friend, and he’s helped me a lot in the short time I’ve known him, but… he thinks I’m important? –_ You typed in a frenzy, desperate to make sense of this.

It took a while for her to reply, and you worried your lip in anxiety. You weren’t really sure what to make of this conversation.

\- _Well, he said that you’re a good painter, and you have a strong eye for detail, even the most gruesome of ones. Your ability is accurate and strong, and you c_ _ould be important in the case moving forward._ –

You struggled to believe it, but you could feel it being the truth.

He really did compliment you that much when he wasn’t with you.

He really thought that high of you.

It made your heart beat even faster.

You weren’t sure how much more of this you could take.

All you could type back was – _Oh._ –

When she wrote back – _What do you think of Red?_ – You struggled to form coherent thought.

What was that supposed to mean?

It felt like there were ulterior motives in her question, and you didn’t know how to make sense of it.

What did you think of him?

Nothing! Everything! Too much!

\- _Idk._ – You didn’t press send yet though, as your answer didn’t feel complete enough.

You breathed to calm down, erased it and restarted.

\- _I’m not sure. He’s helped me a lot, when I’ve been scared and haven’t been able to calm down, and with the aftermath of my episodes. He’s also kept me company when I’ve had nothing better to do than talk to a stranger in a mask. I guess I would say he’s a just, a good guy. And I appreciate him._ –

You were smiling when you hit send, unaware of how much feeling you were actually putting into your words.

But you frowned when she typed back – _Good. He deserves more than what he gets. –_

What was that supposed to mean? But before you could question her, she had typed another response, and it read – _It was good getting to know you, but I do have cases to crack. Have a nice night._ –

And with that the chat box had disappeared and so had all traces of your conversation.

_He deserves more than what he gets._

You didn’t like how true that felt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know when I'm going to get around to writing the next chapter, or even planning it for that matter, but it hope to get to it soon xx  
> I hope you have enjoyed the story so far, thanks for reading, love you all xx and happy new year!!


	11. A Heavy Decision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god I had to repost this bc it went bad and it became a massive block of text ugh.  
> Anyways, no warnings for this chapter, just lots of angst and sadness and a dash of fluff?  
> Enjoy! :)

The day after was, something else.

You laid there, sheets pushed to the end of the bed in the atrociously hot summer night, and stared at the blank ceiling.

How did such a blank space manage to capture what you were feeling so well?

It was one of those days, when your head was too empty and your heart was too full, and you couldn’t decide on what to feel.

Probably because you were scared to start thinking.

But after yesterday, you thought it would be better to think and feel nothing at all, than to spiral and hurt yourself in the chaos of unwanted feelings.

You sighed as you listened to the noise floating in through your open windows, and closed your eyes as a saxophone player on the street below was playing a calming and peaceful tune.

You felt the aura that the tune carried with it, and the players feelings were put into every note that they created.

They were happy.

They didn’t have much money, even though they had been playing for at least an hour now, but they were still happy.

Because they were doing what they loved. Creating music and feelings with every breath into their instrument, and you felt everything that they did.

It was with that sweet fact that you found enough energy to get up and actually start your day.

*

You stood in the shower, the cool water gently beating your skin, and massaging away the stress within you. You scrubbed at your body, desperately relishing in the comfort of feeling clean and no longer being sweaty.

You really did hate summer.

But as you stood underneath the spray of the shower, your face immersed within the water, you still felt… empty.

It wasn’t true of course. You weren’t empty, just, unsure of what to feel. And until you could decide, there was nothing in your head.

But in your heart…

You shook your head underneath the water, almost like you were psychically shaking out the negativity.

You wouldn’t think about it. You wouldn’t think about Nevaeh, and you wouldn’t think about her, or anything that made the hole in your chest any bigger.

You knew you would spiral if you did. And you couldn’t afford to spiral, or to panic. Not after those panic attacks you had a couple days ago.

Sighing tiredly, you grabbed the shampoo off the window sill, and began to wash your hair.

This was going to be a long day.

*

You stood in the kitchen, and stared at the jam jar on the counter.

To make a sandwich, or not to make a sandwich.

That was the question.

Her voice hadn’t been loud that morning, and she didn’t speak the night before. Did she speak yesterday?

It was hard to remember yesterday without wanting to cry about it.

You sighed again, and braced your arms against the counter, and hung your head. How the hell were you going to get through today without breaking down?

All you were trying to do was to make a sandwich, and yet you still couldn’t get it out of your head.

Neveah was so _angry_ …

“NO!” You slammed your hands down on the counter as you shouted, desperation controlling your every thought and move, but still, you were unable to think about anything else.

You didn’t want to _think_. You just wanted to _be_.

_Why wasn’t that enough?_

*

You sat in the living room, a lemonade with ice in hand, and watched the news channel.

According to the weather lady, it was going to be a heat wave this weekend, so it was a good idea to stock up on ice and sun cream. And according to your senses, she was right for once.

It had been mild so far, this summer in Gotham. It had occasionally been humid or had the odd day that felt like it was going to burn your skin off, but it had still been mild.

Except, it was about to get worse.

And you _hated_ it.

As you continued to watch the news channel, the cameras changed from the weather lady to the two main reporters back at the news station, where they continued to inform the public of the current news.

The current news about the _murderer_.

You held a bated breath and watched with horror as the reporters informed the public of the newest developments in the case, and how several people online and in social media had begun to crack the message within the flowers.

It was stupid to think that with such a public presenting of the victim the message could remain a secret.

Of course there would be people who would recognise the flowers. Of course there would be people who would piece together what they mean, and of course people would understand what they meant to the victim.

And now nobody would care.

Why would they? She was a cheater after all. Lots of people would think she deserved what she got.

And maybe she did deserve to get punished. Maybe she did deserve to be taught a lesson to not be greedy or unfaithful.

But not like that.

Not with 6 spears sticking out of her body, slowly killing her, torturing her until her last moments were nothing but pain.

You sighed a desperate sigh, so tired of feeling horrible.

Why did they have to do that?

Now nobody would care.

*

You sat on the floor of your living room, the small storage closet wide open and several paintings surrounding you, all packaged and boxed up, ready for being posted.

But there was a problem.

There was nobody who could go to the post office and send them off.

Because Nevaeh was mad.

You put your head in your hands and sighed with defeat, so tired of being… _tired_.

You were stupid to think you could go through this day and ignore everything that happened yesterday.

You _needed_ Nevaeh.

Why did you think it was a good idea to push her away?

Because she couldn’t get involved in the case.

But you needed her.

But she couldn’t get involved.

But…

You ran your fingers through your hair and breathed, trying to remain calm despite the building frustration at the conflict that was tearing you apart.

You wanted to cry. You wanted to scream. You wanted to tear up everything in the room and then yourself, hoping that maybe, just maybe, there would be an answer within the left-over pieces of yourself.

But you were too tired to try, especially when you knew there was just no point.

You weren’t going to find any answers tearing yourself apart.

And it hurt.

It always hurt.

You didn’t want to hurt.

Taking another deep breath, you tried to focus on something else.

You had to find a way to fix this.

Nevaeh was furious, and she would continue to be until you helped someone, or told her you were already helping.

But since you couldn’t tell her, you had to find another way.

But you didn’t _want_ another way.

You sighed again, falling back and landing on the floor with a thump, spreading out and letting yourself rest, desperately needing it.

You had to think of another way.

_You had too._

Your neighbours? Maybe, but you didn’t like that. It felt iffy. You had never actually spoken to them at all, you had no opportunity too, and so turning up out of the blue and asking them to drop off several large paintings that were all very important to you and your life seemed…like a terrible idea.

Not to mention you wouldn’t even be able to actually leave your door way, so you would have to sit at the door way with your door open all day wating for them to come outside on the off chance they might be feeling generous enough to actually drop them off.

You sighed again, running through several more reasons why your neighbours weren’t the solution you were looking for, when your phone pinged.

You moved your head to the side to look at it, wondering what it could be.

It sounded like a notification, rather than a message, so you didn’t feel any immediate dread.

But you were in a weird head space, so you weren’t sure if it was a good notification or a bad notification.

Unable to be bothered to actually get up, you crawled over to your coffee table like a slug, and checked your phone.

Still laying stomach down on the floor, you unlocked your phone, and saw that your music app had suggested a couple new songs for your ‘art playlist’.

Huh. They seemed like pretty good songs.

You did need a break from thinking so much…

Standing up with a groan, you waddled over to your bookshelf, and picked up your most recent sketch book that you drew in. Sketching was a lot friendlier than your horrific nightmare fuelled paintings.

Collapsing on the couch with your pencil case and sketchbook, you flipped through it to your most recent sketches, and paused when you found several doodles of the vigilante.

Hmm. The Red Hood. You sighed as your head fell back, thinking of him.

He hadn’t come by yesterday, so he was probably going to come back tonight, since he did need to drop off a new burner phone.

Hopefully he was. You really wanted to see him again. You needed something to make you feel better, and he usually made you feel that.

Sighing, you clicked play on the new songs, and began to sketch. You didn’t wanna think about what it meant when you managed to finish several pages of nothing but him.

*

The vigilante knocked on your window at midnight, stepping off the fire escape and into your living room, where you were laid on the floor again, surrounded by stationary that had spilled from your pencil case.

You had put the paintings away earlier when it became clear that you weren’t going to be able to come up with a solution any time soon, and instead swapped them for your markers and other art supplies. And you were doing pretty well inking and colouring your sketches before he came around.

“Feeling creative tonight?” He asked, standing next to you, looking down and trying to peek at your work. You could feel his curiosity, and how badly he wanted to see your art, but all the drawings were of _him_.

That was far too embarrassing, so with a light chuckle, you shut your book and started to gather up your pens to put them away. There was no way he was allowed to see those drawings.

“Something like that. How are you doing?” You replied as you stood up, pencil cases in hand and sketch book underneath your arm.

“I’m alright, got some new information on the case, along with a new phone for you. What about you?”

“I’m fine.” You said as you walked over to your bookcase and slid the sketch book onto the shelf, and then tried to slide the box of markers on top of it. Except, you were _tiny_ , and _Jesus Christ why did you buy such a tall bookshelf?_

You yelped as you felt the vigilante come up behind you and take the box from your hands and put them in their place at the top.

You were frozen on your tip toes, his chest right up against your back, trapping you between him and the bookshelf and _Christ why were you blushing?_

“You sure you’re okay?” He asked again, his automated voice closer than you thought was necessary and doing ungodly things to your brain. Ahhh! What the hell was happening!?

“You seem really tense.” He remarked, gently holding your shoulders and pushing you down off your tip toes, making you even smaller against him.

_Oh God, oh fuck, oh God-_

“Is it because of the fight you had with Nevaeh?”

Fuck _._ Shit. _Fuck_.

Mood instantly killed.

You sagged beneath his arms, and leant back against him, his strong body never giving way and letting you rest. You sighed and dragged your hands down your face as he squeezed your shoulders to comfort you, and you blushed a little harder in your hands.

God, you needed to get a grip. Yes, touch was new and unfamiliar territory, but he wasn’t going to hurt you. He was just trying to comfort you. Everything was _fine_.

“Everything’s fine. I’m just… dealing with it. I don’t think I’m ready to talk about it yet.” You answered tiredly, gently placing your hand over his, a gesture to show you appreciated him being there.

He hummed behind you, and then let go and walked away, taking off his jacket and placing it over the back of the sofa and sitting down.

You turned around to follow him, except, your jaw dropped before you could.

Jesus fucking Christ have mercy on your soul.

You didn’t realise how, ahem, _toned_ , the vigilante was. Apparently, the leather jacket hid how much muscle he had, and with it out of the way, you got a lovely full view of, well, _everything_.

Glorious bulging muscles all wrapped up in a skin tight t-shirt, sweat darkening the shirt and making the muscles more accentuated, and even some small beads of sweat dripping from underneath his helmet, falling onto his chest.

You took a deep breath and turned around, desperate to _get a grip._ He was your _friend_ , not a piece of meat!

“You good?” He called out when he noticed you hadn’t moved.

“Um, uh, ah, yeah, yeah everything’s fine, I just need a drink.” You fumbled out, quickly pacing to the kitchen to get something cold.

Grabbing an iced latte from the fridge, you chanced a peek at the Red Hood. He was spread out across your sofa, his head tilted back and resting, obviously feeling exhausted from the humid air.

Hmm. Turning around, you grabbed a mini electric hand fan from your junk draw.

That would make him feel better.

Walking over to the sofa, you finally sat down, and offered him the electric fan.

He stared at it for a minute, before smiling gently underneath his helmet and taking it. He turned it on and tilted his head back, aiming the fan at his throat, where it was clear he was suffering the most.

And apparently you were suffering also because Goddamn, the sweat sliding down his throat was _sinful_.

Taking a deep breath to calm down, you said “What new information you got?”

Hopefully the case would keep your mind preoccupied and away from any _distracting_ thoughts.

He sighed as he thought about his answer, and then said “You spoke to Oracle yesterday, right?”

You hummed in agreement as you peeled the lid off your iced latte, taking a sip and placing the trash on the table.

“Right, well the targets name is Malcom Valetta, a standard officer who mostly just patrolled. When they found him and questioned him, he clammed up, didn’t say a word, so they let him go home. Had no choice with no real proof. No offence.”

“None taken.” You replied.

“But then he came in today, and confessed everything. Told the commissioner about how he had been taking bribes for _months_ now, and how he had been looking the other way and ignoring this rich woman’s dirty business. Her name is Catherine Whites.”

“He confessed everything? Why?” You asked, perplexed.

“Said there was someone following him home last night. You wanna take a guess on who it was?”

“The murderer.” You didn’t like the dread that was starting to pick up in your stomach. Damnit. The Hood was supposed to keep you company and chase away the bad shit, not bring it with him!

Sighing, you sipped more of your latte as you listened to him continue.

“I mean it could have been, and if you say it was then you’re probably right. But yeah, Valetta got scared, and now the police are chasing down this Whites woman to see if she’s a possible lead.” He finished, sitting up a little and stretching.

“But this lady, Catherine Whites, she doesn’t have anything to do with the murderer.” You pouted, curling your legs up underneath. The police were going in the completely wrong direction.

“You’re probably right, but the police aren’t looking for the murderer, they’re looking to see why one of their own is supposedly being followed home, and Whites is the only lead they have. There’s nothing that actually connects the previous victim and the new target, so they don’t think it’s this new killer.” He explained, his robotic voice doing nothing to comfort the dread still growing in your stomach.

You groaned as you threw your head back, becoming increasingly frustrated with this case. It was going to be impossible to stop the bad guy if everyone kept running around like headless chickens.

“Okay, so everyone’s being fucking stupid, now what? Is he at least going into protective custody?” You asked, exasperated.

The vigilante chuckled at your potty mouth and frustration, but answered your question.

“Yeah, he’s gonna be protected. He’s been fired though, and he won’t work with any government service again, and should be doing a year in prison. But it depends if he helps or not with taking down Whites, and if he does help then it could make his trial go a little easier and he could get less time.” The Red Hood continued to explain, adjusting the fan and pointing it a little lower on his throat.

You tried not to stare.

“Is Catherine Whites really that bad?” You asked, not fully understanding how much trouble Malcom Valetta worked himself into.

“You tell me. What are your senses saying about her?”

You sipped your latte as you thought about it, the cool liquid soothing you from the humidity, and helping you focus.

“She doesn’t seem like a nice person. Actually, she seems like a horrible person. She doesn’t care about anyone at all and will do whatever it takes to get what she wants, bribery being the least worst thing she’s done.” You were confused as to why he asked you what you felt about her, but you amused him anyway.

He hummed in thought, his brows scrunching in thought as he tapped the side of the electric fan, turning it up. You weren’t really sure how to continue the conversation, so you sat there and let him think.

“Do you know if she’s ever murdered anyone?” He asked suddenly, and you hated the way you knew the answer.

“Not directly, but I think, sometimes, she’s a made threat that’s gone too far. And she covered it up.” You didn’t need to say anything else, the truth was out there now, and he knew it, and he wasn’t going to stop hunting her until everyone else knew it too.

But Catherine Whites was a problem for another time.

People like Catherine Whites were too greedy to go anywhere else other than a suffering city like Gotham, where the rich could exploit the poor, and so she wasn’t going anywhere.

And she may have caused a few _accidents_ , but she never brutally murdered someone and hung their corpse from a tree.

Which is why you had to focus on the murderer. Because he was brutal and sadistic and psychotic, and serial killers didn’t usually stop unless they were stopped.

You had to catch him and soon.

Sighing, you took a gulp of your latte this time, needing the sweet boost that caffeine usually gave you. Your coffee wasn’t quite finished yet, but you put it down anyway, the condensation on the cup making your hands all pruney.

Looking around the living room while The Hood was deep in thought, your eyes landed upon the art closet, and the several packaged paintings peeking out of it.

You wondered… No, that would be ridiculous. But… no, no he wouldn’t. Would he? Maybe…

It couldn’t hurt to ask, right?

“What are you thinking about?” The Red Hood asked suddenly, snapping you out of your thoughts.

“Oh, uh, nothing. Well, actually…” He stared at you patiently as you fumbled, and eventually you decided to just say “Ah, fuck it. Listen, I got a hell of a lot of paintings that need to be delivered to the post office and sent off to different buyers so I can get paid, but with the whole, you know, not being able to leave the house thing, I can’t drop them off. I was wondering, if maybe, you would…”

“Send them off?” He finished your sentence for you as a light blush dusted your cheeks when you nodded.

You weren’t used to asking for help.

He thought about it for a bit, and then said “Why don’t you just hire a courier?”

“Huh?” You stared at him with mild confusion, having no idea what he was talking about.

“You seriously don’t know what a courier is?” He asked with surprise, tilting his head. You shook your head no.

“A courier is a person you can hire to deliver something to one place or another. The more cash you pay them the more specific you can make the delivery.” He explained patiently, adjusting the fan again.

“Oh.” You said meekly. “I didn’t know you could do that. Nevaeh always used to just drop them off for me.”

He hummed next to you, not sure what to say to that, but making sure to let you know he was listening.

You sighed as you tilted your head back, tired of the constant depression eating away at you.

“I’m guessing she isn’t going to drop anything off while she’s mad at you, right?” He said, still looking at you.

“Right. But I can’t fix this. I can’t change her mind. I thought we had gotten past it but she still wants to help people, and she still wants to use me to do it.”

He sighed next to you, and then said “Yeah, that’s a problem.”

“I mean, what am I supposed to do? I can’t tell her, I can’t include her, I can’t _trust_ her. I- I just don’t know what to do.” You vented as you clenched your fists together and gritted your teeth, feeling hopeless and frustrated.

“There’s nothing much you can do. You just have to wait and hope that she eventually gives up, otherwise you will just have to keep pushing her away.” He said rather drearily next to you.

“Wow, that’s some really helpful advice, makes me feel much better.” You replied with snark, curling up into a ball and resting your chin on your knees, hugging yourself.

He sighed again before saying “I’m sorry Doll. I’m not the best at this. Comforting people and offering words of hope or wisdom. It’s not my thing. All I can do is give you the truth, and the truth is that your gonna get hurt a lot, and your gonna have to keep pushing people away to keep them safe and the investigation uncompromised.” He said bitterly, turning away from you and slouching on the sofa, upset by his own words, even though they were true.

Jesus, is this what this life was? Unending loneliness and constant hard work to distract you from it?

“Listen,” He began, and you turned your head to look at him. “This life is hard, okay? And it’s only going to get harder, but you have to remember why you started. Because you wanted to help people, and you wanted to change your life and not be afraid anymore. But if it’s putting that much of a strain on yours and Nevaeh’s friendship then you can back out and I can never come back.”

You stared at him as his eyes looked straight into yours, and you could feel the emotions that were attached to every word. There was compassion and sympathy, but there was also a longing. A desperate wish that you would tell him he was wrong and that he should stay.

He didn’t want to leave and never come back.

And you found yourself hating that idea too.

“I don’t think you leaving would fix this to be honest.” You started, and turned your face away so you could stare at the wall and not at him. He was too distracting.

“I mean, Nevaeh wants to help people, and wants me to work with the police or something, and I can’t do that. The only reason I can work with you was because of the weird circumstances. Nevaeh doesn’t know about you, so you’re not the problem. The problem is that I can’t trust her.” You finished with a sigh, and leaned back, looking up at the ceiling and silently praying for an answer.

You jumped when you felt his hand on your shoulder, giving you a comforting squeeze, and you gaped at him with a blush.

God you wished he would stop being so _nice_ , it really made you stupid.

But you calmed down and smiled at him, placing your hand over his and whispering a “Thanks.” under your breath. You were so goddamn grateful he was there.

Hell knows where you would be without him.

“Well, things might only get tougher with Nevaeh, but I’ll always be just a call away if you need me Sweetheart.”

You blushed a little harder with the soft feelings building inside you, and squeezed his hand, unable to speak, afraid you were going to ruin the fragile but soft atmosphere.

Taking your hand away from his, and him letting go of your shoulder, you both dissipated into a comfortable quiet, unsure of what was going to happen next, but unafraid with him by your side.

*

You typed in the password, Oracle_1, and the small black chat box popped up.

The vigilante had left a little past 2 am, and you tried to sleep, you really did, but there was just too much in your head.

(And your heart.)

You decided to seek out someone else, for a second opinion on what to do about Nevaeh, and since there was only one other person you could talk to, you had hoped that Oracle would be awake at 3:46 in the morning.

_\- I know it’s pretty late, but are you awake? I’m kind of having a crisis right now and need some advice. –_

You were prepared to wait a while, thinking she certainly wasn’t going to be up at the late hour, but was pleasantly surprised when you saw three little dots in a floaty cloud appear soon after.

_\- What kind of crisis? –_

Sighing, you began to type.

_\- It’s Nevaeh. I spoke with Red Hood earlier, and he caught me up with the case, but I ended up venting about how frustrated I was because I couldn’t explain to Nevaeh what’s been going on and I’ve been forced to push her away. I just, need to know if I made the right choice. Do you think pushing her away is the right choice? –_

You sat with shaky fingers hovering over your keyboard and pressed send, terrified of her answer.

This was it.

This would decide if you were destined to be alone forever.

She took a long time to reply, but when she did, it made you pause.

_\- That’s a tricky question. Pushing people away is tough, and it hurts, but that’s not the same as cutting them off. I guess, it depends what kind you mean. –_

What _did_ you mean? You didn’t want to cut Nevaeh off, but with the way things were going, it seemed like it was going to reach a nasty conclusion and she was never going to speak to you again.

You tapped the edge of the laptop in frustration, unsure exactly what to say and what to do.

_\- She’s angry because she wants to help people, and she wants to use me to do it. But she wants to go to the police, and I obviously can’t do that, but if I don’t show her that I’m already helping people then she might act out on her own and cause the police to come knocking. Or she might just never speak to me again. I don’t know what to do. –_

She already knew the situation, but you hoped that by saying it clearly would help present a clear solution.

You doubted it would though.

_\- I’m stumped myself. Are you sure you can’t trust her? –_

You paused as your fingers hovered over the keys, unsure of what was holding you back, but you found yourself unable to immediately agree with her.

Were you really sure?

Were you really unable to trust her?

Were you really just going to give up trying to trust her and keep her around even though your connection had apparently been severed?

_\- Yes. She broke our promise, how can I trust her to keep another one? –_

There was something screaming at you in your head, telling you that you were wrong, but you ignored it.

How could you trust her? You had proof you couldn’t.

_\- Then I’m sorry, but you just have to let her go. She can’t get involved, and she can’t get in the way. –_

Fuck.

You knew it was coming.

You knew there was no way out, and that there was no happy ending.

You knew, and still, you stupidly hoped it would be okay.

You were setting yourself up for failure, and you were a stupid pile of shit.

_‘Pathetic’_

You chuckled cynically as her voice perked up, and you quickly typed _\- Thanks for the advice, goodbye -_ to Oracle, before shutting the chat and the laptop.

Of course, her voice would decide to speak now, when you were about to begin an episode of self-loathing.

_‘You’re so stupid sometimes.’_

“Yes, yes I am.” You said out loud, climbing into your bed and hiding under the covers, tears so close to spilling already.

_‘Stupid and pathetic.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I have no excuse for why I disappeared. I mean at first it was bc chapter 11 was a bitch and I had no idea how to write it, and I avoided it for months bc if I can't write then im a failure and blah blah blah angsty teenager shit, and then I had a Final Major Project that determines whether I get in college next year and I had 4 weeks to do it sooo, yeah. I guess that is an excuse, but hey, you got a chapter eventually right? haha...  
> But a quick P.S.A, don't hate on Nevaeh too much okay? she's not that bad, and all the feedback I got has definitely helped me understand how other ppl see her and she's gonna go through a... thing? No spoilers, but please remember that this is solely from the readers pov and so therefore its pretty bias.  
> https://panicandprocrastinatestories.tumblr.com/ - check me out on Tumblr for updates and if u have questions, never be afraid to ask!  
> Thanks for reading! :)


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